


What You Are Picks Its Way

by redyucca



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Downton Abbey Movie script doctoring (more snuggles), Gen, M/M, Thomas Barrow & Daisy Mason Friendship, cause i'm not a tory bitch like julian fellowes, i'm going to give it to them, they deserve some class solidarity, thomas and richard kiss for hours on end, walt whitman wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28729017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redyucca/pseuds/redyucca
Summary: A political reading of Thomas's path of healing.Because Thomas doesn't need the acceptance of an old world. He needs a new and better world to begin with. And he's going to carve it out, with a big, pumpkin-carving sort of knife. And hold on to Richard as hard as he can.~
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Daisy Mason, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 40
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four days ago, during a re-watch of the series, I got dramatically angry at the conversation between Lord Grantham and Thomas Barrow in which ol' patronizing bobby basically said, "carson is kind man. be more like him." 
> 
> i thought, bitterly: kindness (related to 'kin' and 'kindred') should be about how you treat those around you, not some weird sort of pure expression of the cultural values of the elite. 
> 
> anyway--here's a story about the political value of kissing <3

_I will dance, I will sing and my laugh shall be gay  
I will charm every heart, in his crown I will sway  
I woke from my dreaming, my idol was clay  
All portions of loving had all flown away  
_

_"[Wildwood Flower](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2YEKQmP65M)" by Hank Thompson_

* * *

“Don’t you enjoy it more,” Anna asked. “Than being at war with the world?”

Thomas considered her sweet face, flushed and rounded from pregnancy, and he felt something click into place that hadn’t before. 

He cleared his throat and turned forward, casting his eyes at the hat on his knees. 

“The thing is, Mrs. Bates,” he said softly. “Is that the world is always going to be at war with me.”

~

The aftermath of Thomas’s attempted suicide was about as stilted and concerned as any English drama. While in some ways, Thomas sensed his peers’ eyes _more_ , with a more thoughtful regard, the distance between them, still, was as long and icy as ever. Their pity may have been deeper, but it was pity, nonetheless—condescending and with a fresh coat of paint. 

Mrs. Hughes, Andy, and Ms. Baxter had limped to his room under the weight of his soaked and pale body, and deposited him on the spare bed. Andy had taken it upon himself to undress him while Ms. Baxter dried his hair and Mrs. Hughes retrieved bandages and requested Mrs. Patmore procure a hot brick. When they had bundled him up in extra bedding and cleaned the thin, deep cuts on his white wrist, Andy had gone into the hall and slid down to the floor, legs splayed out, shirt-sleeves wet, tears running down to his jaw. 

“Andy,” Mrs. Hughes toned, dry and forced, as she carried Thomas’s watery, bloody clothes out of the room. “You’ll ruin your livery. Come on now, dear. Stand up.”

Andy rocked his head back and forth on the wall, mouth quivering. 

“I’ve never,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen—“

Mrs. Hughes sighed and said, “Go get yourself changed and head down to the kitchens. I’ll have some tea ready for you.”

Inside Thomas’s bedroom, Ms. Baxter was squeezing the ends of Thomas’s hair with a towel, calm yet manic.

By the time Anna went running up the stairs with Dr. Clarkson, Andy was in the kitchen, staring at the steam rising from his cup and holding tightly to Mrs. Patmore’s hand. 

“Why would he…” he said, while she patted his knuckles. 

“Who knows, dear,” Mrs. Patmore replied, roughly. “He’s always been a mystery, that one.”

While Dr. Clarkson saw to Thomas’s wounds, Ms. Baxter gripped his ankles through the thick blankets. 

“You found him just in time, I should say,” Dr. Clarkson said, tying off the bandage. “Right now, it’s important to keep him warm and, as soon as he wakes up, hydrated and fed.”

“What if he,” Anna started but couldn’t finish, eyes wide and still breathing hard from her run to the cottage hospital.

“What she means to ask, Dr. Clarkson,” Carson said, staunch and tall, “Is what are the chances of Mr. Barrow attempting this deed again?”

Clarkson let his gaze slide over the room, from Anna's shocked and flickering fingers, clenching and un-clenching in her dress, to Carson’s blank reserve, to Mrs. Hughes bent brow, eye curved with deep concern, and to Ms. Baxter, shifting now to sit beside Thomas’s hip on the bed to pet the fabric next to his resting arm. Finally, he looked at Barrow, a man he had known longer than he had yet considered, and something itched, like a scab, in his memory. 

_Sir, I only meant to say, that Lt. Courtenay is depressed._

“I can’t say for certain, Mr. Carson,” Clarkson answered as he packed up his bag. “It’s a long road ahead. Maybe he’ll figure out how to accept himself at last.”

At that Ms. Baxter covered her face with her hands. Carson grunted and walked Dr. Clarkson out, Anna trailing, and Mrs. Hughes produced a handkerchief. 

“He’s said that before,” Ms, Baxter said, leaning forward to brush the back of her fingertips against Thomas’s cheekbone. “The doctor—he told Thomas the best way forward was just to—accept it.”

“Doesn’t look like he took the advice to heart,” Mrs. Hughes observed quietly, blinking away a single tear. 

Ms. Baxter shook her head and said, “No—I think he did. I think he did.” 

(It was this remark that haunted Mrs. Hughes for the long months of Thomas’s recovery. She remembered it as she watched him tug his sleeves down over his wrists when the children were too rough with him, as she watched him forgo sugar in his tea, as she watched him silently acquiesce to Carson’s hints, send letters of inquiry, polish the silver, do his crossword, and retreat, and retreat, and retreat.)

When Andy had finally worked up the nerve to visit with him, a week after his near death, he had found Ms. Baxter and Thomas both sitting side-by-side on his bed, feet politely crossed on the floor, Ms. Baxter’s forehead leaning ever so slightly against his shoulder, in the barest form of contact, while he whispered to her, “Let him go, Ms. Baxter. That's my advice.”

“Sorry, I’ll come back later—”

“Oh, Andy,” Ms. Baxter breathed, sitting up and smoothing down her already smooth skirt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you—”

“It’s only that Mrs. Hughes thought I could sit with—”

“Yes, of course, I should find—”

Andy stood aside as Ms. Baxter touched Thomas’s arm and then squeezed through the door, keeping his eyes on Thomas. 

He was out of his pajamas, in freshly pressed shirtsleeves, hair gelled and combed, eyes dark.

“What can I do for you, Andy?” Thomas asked, fidgeting with his cuffs. His voice was still wrecked, though Andy couldn’t name with what. 

“I thought I—” Andy began, averting his gaze and shuffling awkwardly to sit in the arm-chair by the window. “Well, that is, I wanted—Mrs. Hughes said…”

He trailed off and met Thomas’s eyes again. 

“Thank you, Andy,” Thomas said, his voice even quieter than before. 

“Oh,” Andy said. 

“I know it’s a hard thing,” Thomas offered, placing his hands evenly on his knees and breathing deeply. “To see what you saw. I am sorry if it’s, well,…”

Andy rapidly shook his head and said in one breath, “No, no, not a problem, Mr. Barrow, really.”

Thomas smiled and Andy felt its chill. 

“You were too young,” Thomas said, clearing his throat and affecting a casual air. “For the war. It’s a hard thing to see—I know that. So accept my apology. I mean it.”

Andy’s eyes burned but he nodded. (Daisy found him later, staring again at the steam in his tea.)

~

Thomas had a conversation very like that with nearly everyone in the house, at least once. The family seemed to think, with him having had his say, in a rather dramatic fashion, the real solution was to give him some breathing room to find a suitable position. 

Lady Rosamund had gifted him a new pen, patting the top of his shoulder briefly, saying, “Things will look up, Mr. Barrow.” 

Lady Mary invited him on outings with the children every once in awhile, her gaze heavy with self-assured magnanimity every time Master George grabbed his hand. 

Lord Grantham had held the top of his arm and looked into Thomas’s blank face at luncheon his first day back, under Carson’s disapproving expression, and said, “Welcome back,” as if this was where Thomas had been trying to be all along, standing empty and clean in the weak English-sunlight. 

_“Mr. Carson is a kind man, Barrow,”_ The Earl had once said to Thomas, signaling then as he did now, that what he expected from these words and attention was gratitude. 

“Thank you, m’lord,” Thomas intoned, looking past Lord Grantham’s left shoulder, holding himself rigid at the unwelcome contact. 

Lady Grantham had caught him at the stairs one night and said, “I’m glad to see you looking so well, Barrow.”

(Thomas had nodded, focusing on the way her necklace and earrings jingled, wishing for a moment he could slip inside that sound and drink.)

But ultimately, nothing changed. 

Ms. Baxter was as kind as ever, Mrs. Hughes as sturdy. Though there was an extra layer of wariness in the side-glances he received from his fellow servants, their regard for him did not fundamentally shift. He was allowed to return to his position without any fuss at all, socially or otherwise—his attempted self-murder became yet another strange thing about Mr. Barrow, another point of pity. As Thomas slowly returned to a un-changing reality, he realized (or his story was realized, that is, completed) that this was as good as it would ever get.

The Fight hammered at his window in the night, but could find no way in. 

~

There was _one_ change, perhaps. 

~

“What’re you reading?” Daisy asked as she placed the tray across his lap. Her attention was keen and sharp, and Thomas felt warm under it. 

He lifted the book, spine facing outward: 

“ _Past and Present_ ,” she read. “What’s it about then?”

She sat on the armchair and leaned on her elbow, waiting patiently for his answer. 

“England,” Thomas said. 

“Well, what about it?”

This was a game Thomas was now used to playing: the constant stream of visitors and innocuous conversations, in which everyone was pretending that the Downton staff and Thomas had never been in any sort of contention at all. Cricket and Parliament and Weddings and Food. The sort of conversation that would have filled the gaps in Thomas’s mind as he went about his day, the small curiosities of living, but now were like precious gems that Thomas himself could not touch without turning into flame.

Thomas sighed and picked at the crust of his bread. 

“Nothing important,” he replied. 

Ordinarily, Daisy might have rolled her eyes, unbothered, and walked off but now she rolled her eyes and stayed. 

“Why are you reading it, then?” she asked. 

Suddenly, she leaned forward and prodded his side, hard, with her index finger. It was childish and physical and such a deep relief. 

“Go on,” she egged. “I can keep up, now, I promise.”

Thomas looked at her very round eyes, the look of which he had once meanly compared to a cow's, and choked on a thousand different apologies, untethered and unsure.

(He used to sit in the Servant’s hall, reading the news or books on history, desperate in his own way to figure out the language and attitudes of those upstairs. Daisy inevitably would plop down beside him and ask what he was studying so hard, seemingly happy to get a lukewarm brush-off endlessly. Except one time he was reading from a poetry collection, late after dinner, and she caught him completely off-guard. He had read the whole poem out to her, in one long mistake of vulnerability, in one crackling tone:

> _“…Your true soul and body appear before me,_   
>  _They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying … I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself …The mockeries are not you,Underneath them and within them I see you lurk, I pursue you where none else has pursued you, Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me…._   
>  _…[what you are picks its way.](https://poets.org/poem/you)"_

And she had capped off the moment by breathlessly remarking, “Seems a bit mad to me. What kind of poetry is that?”

And he had snapped at her meanly and she never bothered asking again. Before he had tried to kill himself, at least.)

He set his tray aside and picked up the book again, flipping through it to find the right passage. 

“[It’s about England](http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/13534/pg13534.html),” he repeated. “Listen: _Many men eat finer cookery, drink dearer liquors,—with what advantage they can report, and their Doctors can: but in the heart of them, if we go out of the dyspeptic stomach, what increase of blessedness is there? Are they better, beautifuller, stronger, braver? Are they even what they call 'happier? Do they look with satisfaction on more things and human faces in this God's Earth; do more things and human faces look with satisfaction on them? Not so. Human faces gloom discordantly, disloyally on one another. Things, if it be not mere cotton and iron things, are growing disobedient to man.”_

Daisy sat silently as he read aloud, and didn’t react beyond a growing frown of concentration. 

“Are they better, beautifuller, stronger, braver?” she repeated, ticking off the words with her fingers. 

Thomas nodded, though he didn’t know what he was nodding at. Then she held out her hand and he put the book on her palm. She thumbed through the pages, pausing every few seconds, before looking up. 

“You’ve marked this passage,” she said, keeping a finger on the page as she turned the book around. Then she put the page close to her face and read: “ _Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice, but an accidental one, here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death! In the centre of the world-whirlwind, verily now as in the oldest days, dwells and speaks a God. The great soul of the world is just… nay which thou thyself, till 'redtape' strangled the inner life of thee, hadst once some inkling of: That there is justice here below; and even, at bottom, that there is nothing else but justice!”_

As she read, Thomas watched her lips, tracing the outline of her teeth, trying to hear something in the words that he might not have heard before. When she finished, she closed the book and looked out the window, still concentrating. 

“Do you think so?” she asked, still gazing out to the grounds. “That the 'great soul of the world is just,' like?”

Thomas tore his eyes away from the tip of her nose and back to the bandages on his wrists. 

“I think I don’t know a thing about the world, Daisy,” he said. 

“Well, I think it _ought_ to be,” she said, turning to him and placing the book on the bed. "Just, I mean."

“And what would it look like, do you think?” he asked, smiling bitterly. “A just world?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “But I think we’d all have a better place in it, do you know what I mean? I think we wouldn’t have to wonder as much.”

“Including me?” Thomas couldn’t help but ask.

Daisy shifted forward again and started tugging at a thread loose in the seam of the chair. 

“I think so,” she said softly. “I just don’t think it’s really at all criminal to love anyone, no matter how.”

~

During Thomas’s final months at Downton, he discovered a secret language with Daisy, one that kept him afloat in the aftermath, sometimes even more so than Phyllis’s extensive fondness. They hardly spoke—he hardly spoke to anyone—but she could get away with saying anything at all because no one was likely to take her seriously, and Thomas found himself in the position of being her sole audience member in a crowd of listeners. The more Carson would grumble at whatever anti-monarchist thing she said, the more Thomas would nod along, making her preen and glow. 

On his last night at the Abbey, he sat in front of the fire, reading again, when she dropped a very thin volume on his lap, with a page marked, before heading off to bed. He glanced at the title: [_Lord Byron’s Remarks, House of Lords, 1812_](http://www.luddites200.org.uk/LordByronspeech.html), and opened it to the dog-eared page. He read what she had underlined:

> _Are we aware of our obligations to a mob ! It is the mob that labour in your fields, and serve in your houses— that man your navy, and recruit your army—that have enabled you to defy all the world,—and can also defy you, when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob, but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people._

The next day at breakfast, as Daisy was filling up Mr. Carson’s tea, Thomas asked her, “You’ll let me know if you ever join a mob, won’t you, Daisy?”

Carson had rumbled snobbishly, but Daisy laughed as she scurried back to the kitchen. 

~

Daisy’s letters were long-winded, rambling, and delightful. She herself seemed to delight in his own whinging, his sharpness, his apparent ingratitude for such a lucky position at so young. She would say:

_Carson told me yesterday that I needed to be more discreet with Andy. When I asked him what he meant, he said: It means you will not flirt with the footmen while his Lordship is waiting for his dinner. I wished I could say something nasty to him. It was Andy’s fault for the delay, but I’m always the one in trouble._

And he would reply: 

_If his Lordship starves as he waits for his dinner, then it’s possible there are more pressing issues than Andy’s flirting. I would advise against saying anything nasty to Carson. He will take it as unprovoked, as he cloaks his own nastiness in “English Custom,” and can therefore get away with it. Regardless, I almost miss his pointed remarks. Even Carson is better company than these empty halls._

He received the invitation to Lady Edith’s wedding towards the end of October and read the included letter from Mrs. Hughes in the courtyard, rolling the bright fall leaves beneath his shoes, breathing deep. 

_We would very much appreciate your company this New Years, for the wedding, should your new employers be able to spare you. The children in particular have been asking after you and Lady Grantham feels it wouldn’t be right for Lady Edith to get married without her savior present._

_~_

When Thomas arrived at the church on the day of, he found a seat next to Anna and Mr. Bates just as the service was about to start: Anna, deeply pregnant and very happy, Mr. Bates, mellow and unconcerned with Thomas’s presence. 

“You managed to get away then?” she asked, lowly, reverent of the setting in her courteous way.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling wryly. “The treadmill awaits my return.”

She looked as if she wanted to roll her eyes but was too polite to do so in Church. She grinned however and asked, “How’s it going? Are you getting on with everyone?”

Thomas was tempted to say something profoundly bitter about making dear friends with the ghosts in the walls but instead opted for a lighter: “There isn’t much of an everyone to get on with.”

“Don’t you enjoy it more,” Anna asked. “Than being at war with the world?”

His brow crumpled and he said softly, “I suppose.”

She shifted a bit and made an uncomfortable noise, prompting him to ask, “What’s the matter?”

She sighed and started fanning herself. “It’s just a bit hot in here.”

Thomas took in Bates’s steady attention on the program, the crowds of people still wrapped in coats in the drafty and chilled room, and felt a sudden urge not to just be _courteous_ to Anna or to be the polite yet sarcastic spirit that she helped nurse back to health after he tried to off himself, but to be fierce—to _fight_ something. 

He breathed in and out once, and fiddled with the hat on his thighs. 

“The thing is, Mrs. Bates,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Is that the world is always going to be at war with me.”

She turned to him, fanning forgotten, and they looked at each other, wary and pleading and painful. 

“Surely you of all people understand,” he said, even quieter. 

She furrowed her forehead, her instinctual politeness fading away into a rushing sort of consideration. 

“I’d rather be grateful,” she said, something broken in her eyes. 

He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. He wanted to grip her face and yell everything he’d ever thought of her, beg her to yell back. 

_Don’t you see, Anna! Don’t you see! You’ve been had! You’re happy now, you’ve got what you wanted, but the world only gave it to you because you never complained! The world wants you grateful and submissive to the scraps it throws at you! You should be raising your family in your own home! You should’ve ran off with your husband long before this! You shouldn’t have to rely on the generosity of the people whose hair you brush!_

But the music started— _Handel_ , Thomas noticed absently, _how very posh, Anna would’ve chosen Bach_ —and all he could reply was, “I know.”

After the service, Andy caught up with him walking down the aisle, his smile making his ears stick a little further out the side of his head. 

“Mr. Barrow!” he nearly shouted. “I’m so happy you could make it! Did you catch a train?”

Though Thomas’s employers had a car, Thomas was barred from borrowing it for personal use. As much as the Lord and Lady embraced change by cutting down their household staff to nearly nothing, they were perpetually stuck in the old ways, and Thomas was more invisible and less human than ever before. 

“I was able to hop into an empty boxcar, yes, Andy,” he said. 

Andy looked briefly concerned he was telling the truth, but then shook his head and replied, “Glad to hear it. Everyone was so excited you would be coming to visit.”

“Were they?” Thomas asked, raising his eyebrows. He moved quickly past the clergymen gathered at the door to avoid a handshake and holy 'welcome back,' waiting as Andy cheerfully greeted Travis before skipping down the steps. 

“Of course!” Andy said, stepping to Thomas’s side. “Daisy reads parts of your letters to me, sometimes, and everyone is always interested. Even Mrs. Patmore!”

Thomas couldn’t help but laugh at Andy’s good nature and the idea of Mrs. Patmore being even a little bit concerned about him. 

“Even Mrs. Patmore, eh?” he asked. Before he could continue the joke and ask about Carson, he felt a small weight crash into his legs from behind. He nearly stumbled, but caught himself on Andy’s arm and whipped around. 

“Mister Barrow!” A small voice shrieked. “You’re back!”

“Why if it isn’t Master George, all done up in his Sunday best!” Thomas exclaimed, bending down to scoop George into his arms. The child was grinning even bigger than Andy, his face already dirty from messing about in the flowers with Sybbie and Marigold. 

“You’re back!” he shrieked again. 

“Yes, it sure looks like it, doesn’t it?” he asked, using his free hand to tickle George’s side. He giggled and squealed before wrapping his little arms around Thomas’s neck and squeezing hard. 

“Welcome back, Thomas,” a cheerful voice said from his left. He had to shift George to his other side to see Daisy standing there, a flower stuck in her cap, looking for all the world like Thomas was a dear friend. 

“Hello, Daisy,” he said in the same wry tone. “Joined any mobs?”

~

In the year and a half following Carson’s partial retirement, Thomas hardly left the house, let alone the village. He had little company. Phyllis was deeply fond of him, and they spent many a quiet evening working together, but he was counting the days until Mr. Molesley would propose and she would leave him. Mrs. Hughes was a great partner, a great deal more kind to him than Mr. Carson ever was, but the distance from before was the same as it ever was, kind or not. The other staff kept apart from him without any prompting from Mrs. Patmore or Anna due to his new and sacred position of authority. And, while Mr. Bates was seemingly quite comfortable to leave his son with Thomas a fair amount of the time, he still didn’t much care for Thomas himself. 

It was better, Thomas told himself, than the empty halls from before—better also than the time leading up to his attempted suicide, when he was, in many ways, truly cast off and alone. 

Dr. Clarkson had told him to accept his lot. Anna had said to stop fighting the world. Lord Grantham had told him to be kind, like Carson. 

But Daisy had said she believes the world could be _better._

Daisy had become his closest friend, in a way that seemed to surprise everyone but Daisy herself. While she spent a good deal of time with Mr. Mason and Andy, she had come to repeating her habit from so many years ago, finding him after dinner and telling him to tell her about what he was reading. Mrs. Hughes would often have to chase her out of the Butler’s office at the end of the day, so they could review the order. 

One evening, while he tallied up the house expenses, she had slumped into her chair and said, “It’s mad, isn’t it?”

“What is?” he asked, focused mostly on the log in front of him. 

“Who would’ve thought?” she continued like he hadn’t asked. “Five years ago, if someone had told me that you would’ve been a nicer Butler than Mr. Carson, I would’ve said they were daft.”

Thomas dropped his pen and looked up at her. 

“You’re being daft now,” he said. 

“I’m not,” she protested. “It’s the truth! Alfred was just telling me yesterday that he never thought Butler’s could be nice.”

“You called me nasty this morning, Daisy,” he said. 

“Oh, but I didn’t mean it the way I used to,” she said. 

“You just like me more than him because I vote Labour,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“I like you more because when kitchen maids make mistakes, you don’t tell them they’re a stain on the English crown,” she said snippy. 

“Did Carson ever say that to you?” Thomas asked, genuinely curious. 

“He implied it a couple times,” she said. 

"Well, I'm sure he wasn't at all unfair about it," said Thomas. She laughed.

“Ivy once taught me some funny lyrics someone had written to _Rule Britannia_ ,” she said. “Sometimes I would hum it when he was around. He would think I was humming the actual words but I was really thinking the other ones in my head.”

“Well, feel free to sing whatever you like,” Thomas replied, shifting back into budgeting mode. “No one upstairs is likely to care.”

~

In spite of the simple strength Daisy lent him, by the time of the Royal visit, Thomas had utterly resigned himself to loneliness. His closest friends were slipping through his fingers, Phyllis and Daisy both inching closer to wedded bliss, lives outside of service, and Mrs. Hughes was on the edge of retirement. The household staff was growing smaller and Thomas could read the writing on the wall, had already seen the type of house Downton Abbey would become—quiet and formal and dead. 

The morning Lord Grantham received a telegram from Buckingham Palace, Thomas was looking at the scars of his wrists in the thin morning light. They shimmered silver, like the moon.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referenced: 
> 
> "Past and Present" by Thomas Carlyle
> 
> "To You" by Walt Whitman
> 
> Lord Byron's Speech, House of Lords, 1812


	2. Chapter 2

> _As they become known to and accepted by us, our feelings, and the honest exploration of them, become sanctuaries and spawning grounds for the most radical and daring of ideas. ...We can train ourselves to respect our feelings and to transpose them into a language so they can be shared. And where that language does not yet exist, it is our poetry which helps to fashion it._
> 
> _Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before._
> 
> Audre Lord _, Sister Outsider_

* * *

It was a misty day, winds from the south, threatening buckets of rain. But Richard knew that northern showers had a tendency to drop what they had and leave within the hour, so he didn't fret about it as the car made its way past Ripon and Downton, to the next estate on their list. Mr. Wilson, however, was not happy. 

“Well, they’ll just have to cancel the parade,” he said, and while the words themselves were calm, the way he snapped his small moleskin shut and tucked his pen away told Richard how much changing plans infuriated him. 

“Pity,” Richard offered, feeling none, confident the rain would blow back in the next couple nights, but not willing to get into an extended conversation about the weather with Mr. Wilson. 

Ms. Lawton caught his eye as he turned back around and he tried for another grin, but her mood was sour, and all she could manage in return was a faintly amused sniff. 

Richard turned to the chauffeur beside him. He was young and local and barely containing his thrill at the Royal Visit. With Mr. Wilson cranky and unable to boast in the name of the King and Ms. Lawton tired and motion-sick, Richard decided to give him a release. 

“Paul, you said your name was?” he asked. 

The boy startled, literally jumped in his seat, but kept his eyes on the road and his hands steady. The whole of it immediately endeared him to Richard. 

“Yes, sir,” Paul replied. “I’m so sorry, sir, I hardly remember your…”

“Perfectly alright, Paul,” Richard said cheerfully. “Can’t remember something you were never told, now can you?”

The Household never really sent his name, or any other’s aside from Mr. Wilson's—it would hardly advance the 'Property of the King narrative' that Royal etiquette relied on so much for anyone to be in possession of Richard’s name. 

Paul smiled bashfully, gaze fixed ahead of him, as if it was his choice to not be introduced at the train station. 

“I’m Mr. Ellis,” Richard said, aware now of Mr. Wilson’s glare on his back. 

“Are you the Valet to the King, Mr. Ellis?” Paul asked quickly, clearly having sat on the question for longer than he was able. 

“One of his valets, yes,” Richard said. “The primary one will arrive tomorrow, briefly, and then with the King on Thursday.”

“That’s brilliant,” Paul breathed. “So you’ve actually met him, sir?”

“I have—” Richard started. 

“Mr. Ellis,” Mr. Wilson snapped from the backseat, leaning as far forward as his pressed shirt might allow. “Need I remind you of what you are and _are not_ obliged to disclose about His Majesty?”

“You needn’t, Mr. Wilson,” Richard replied, as light as possible to soothe Paul’s frantic look. 

“ _Impertinent_ ,” Wilson hissed before sitting back. Richard made sure his face was turned to the window before he glanced briefly to high heaven for strength. Mr. Wilson was already un-fond of Richard, for reasons Richard himself couldn’t understand, and it really wouldn’t do to annoy him so much that he would consider a replacement in order. Regardless, on a trip like this, everything annoyed Mr. Wilson so it likely wouldn’t stick to Richard no matter how impertinent he was. 

“So, Paul,” Richard said, softer now. “How long have you worked at Downton Abbey?”

“Just under a year, sir,” replied Paul.

"Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes, sir, very much,” he said, proud and sincere. 

“How’s the staff?” Richard had no intention of prying gossip out of Paul, but sometimes it paid to be forewarned about characters and customs before trodding all over other people’s work. 

“They’re top-rate, Mr. Ellis,” Paul answered with a grin. “And Mr. Barrow. He's kind.”

“Mr. Barrow is the Butler?” Richard clarified. 

“That he is, sir.”

It was a very strange description of a butler, offered with no prompting. Stranger even still for a butler to a house so grand. He’s heard ‘fair’ and ‘tough’ and ‘swift’ and ‘capable’ many times to describe a good butler, but ‘kind’ never seemed to enter the mix. 

“He’s treated you well, then?” he ventured. 

Paul’s grin slipped into an almost fond smile. “He let’s me eat with the other servants,” he explained, as if that did in fact explain the depth of Mr. Barrow’s soul. 

Mr. Wilson scoffed audibly from his seat. 

“We’re coming up on it now, sir,” Paul said, his thrill wrapped back up as they turned onto a very long gravel drive. 

It was pretty, in the way all great country houses were pretty, but the grounds surrounding it were too flat and bare for Richard’s taste. The forests beyond held the damp morning gracefully and the poplar and elm trees on the drive made the spires on Downton Abbey seem a mockery. His mother would undoubtedly ask about the house on his visit and he could already hear her laughing at him: _You read far too much Wordsworth, dear._

(Of course, for all her laughter, this happened to be one of those little things that frankly worried her. One didn't spend an inordinate amount of time reading the poetry of political radicals because they were _happy_. She would try to push novels onto him and he would let the recommendations pile--none were written for him.)

He turned to Ms. Lawton and quoted: " _But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din, Of towns and cities, I have owed to these beauteous forms, In hours of weariness, sensations[sweet](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45527/lines-composed-a-few-miles-above-tintern-abbey-on-revisiting-the-banks-of-the-wye-during-a-tour-july-13-1798)_."

"Sentimental," she muttered, but smiling all the same.

"What?" Paul asked.

"That'll be enough of the commentary, Mr. Ellis," said Mr. Wilson.

"Just a melancholy [strain](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45554/the-solitary-reaper), Paul," said Richard, forcing down his own frustration until he couldn't feel it.

As they arrived at the front of the house, Richard’s heart sank just a little. The footmen were chipper and eager, a strong sign that none of the staff had ever witnessed a royal visit before. Mr. Wilson was in for another rough ride. 

“Thank you for all your help, Paul,” Richard offered as they unstrapped their personal luggage from the back of the car. 

Paul flushed and bobbed his head, “Of course, sir. You’re welcome, sir.”

Richard surveyed the grounds as Paul shuffled back into the car, the fog hanging over the lawn, and removed his coat to hang on his arm. The world felt fresh in the country. As he breathed in the wet dirt and before-rain scent, he indulged in one brief moment, closing his eyes and letting the mist brush across his face. 

“Ellis,” snapped Wilson. 

He walked round the car just as a young man came trotting out the front door to welcome them. He was in tails and bore a fashionable haircut as well as a white leather glove on his left hand. 

“Greetings, Mr. Wilson,” he said. “Welcome to Downton Abbey.”

 _The Butler, then._ Richard thought with some surprise.

As he made his way out of the damp and into the hall, he took a moment to appreciate the warm reds and browns at the entrance, the smell of cleaning solutions in the air, and the distant sounds of a living house. 

“This way Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Barrow’s cordial voice said from behind his right shoulder. He turned and got another brief glance at his face, service-smile etched implacably onto his mouth, but his limbs loose. He held the door to the servant’s stairwell and Richard sought to catch his eye as he passed, however Mr. Barrow’s gaze was fixed on something beyond him. 

Mr. Barrow gestured them to the servant’s hall, saying, “Just give me one moment to gather the staff, Mr. Wilson.”

Quite a few of the staff were already in the hall, probably having been warned by the neat-looking woman with a set of keys hanging off her hip, presumably the Housekeeper. She signaled to several housemaids and hall boys to stand up around the table. 

“Who’s this then?” a sharp voice sounded out as Richard set his and Ms. Lawton’s cases out of the way. What looked like the cook and her assistant came bustling into the hall, both wiping their hands on towels and looking at them, suspicious and eager. 

“The Royal servants, Mrs. Patmore,” the Housekeeper said swiftly, moving to take their coats and hats. “Arrived this morning as Mr. Barrow _said_ they would.” She raised her eyebrows and Mrs. Patmore held up her hands before sliding into place around the table. 

Mr. Wilson sent Richard and Ms. Lawton a pointed look, and they dutifully fell into place behind him just as Mr. Barrow and the rest of the Downton staff arrived. 

“Is that the King’s valet, Mr. Barrow?” a very young housemaid whispered loudly to the Butler, leaning far into the man’s space and shooting Richard a wide-eyed look. Mr. Barrow held a single finger to his lips and set his mouth sternly before gently nudging her down the table. She looked immediately contrite, but he only nodded at her, and she scampered to her place. 

Another woman, willowy and with a soft expression came up behind Mr. Barrow, greeting him with a brief touch above his elbow before squeezing in beside the cooks and pulling out a notebook and pen. Mr. Barrow stepped into place at the head of the table, exchanging a meaningful look with the Housekeeper that Richard couldn’t parse. Finally, everyone was gathered. 

Mr. Wilson liked to take a moment and pretend as if he were sizing up the household staff, when, as Richard suspected to the point of faith, he was really taking the moment to let the staff marvel at the drama of his station. 

“Good morning,” he said. “I am Mr. Wilson.”

The introductions were always a little rough, mostly because Mr. Wilson gave very little care to making a proper introduction in the first place. In some households, there were one or two members with experience with Royal visits, who knew the score and could give the staff the exact impression that Mr. Wilson expected. The households without such experience fell into line with as many ruffled feathers as expected, but still left Mr. Wilson satisfied. There were some households, however, ones that Mr. Wilson would derisively label ‘Modern,’ that were not in much awe of the Royal Staff. From the rather young Butler, who’s chief characteristics so far were ‘kind’ and 'handsome,' to the unapologetic cook—Richard knew what sort of house this was likely to be. 

As Wilson talked, Richard took the opportunity to actually look at the staff. He could just barely study Mr. Barrow through the side of his eyes without turning his head and making it obvious. He stood as neat as any Butler, at careful attention, face on Mr. Wilson fully. But respectable was not reverential and Mr. Wilson was a ticking time bomb of frustration already without the presence of a young, not easily-cowed head of staff thrown in the mix. 

“I will return to Raby castle and come back to Downton in advance of their majesties on Thursday.” Mr. Wilson was wrapping up and Richard turned his eyes forward again. “But His Majesty’s valet, Mr. Ellis,” Richard nodded, “and Her Majesty’s dresser, Ms. Lawton, will stay on, if that is convenient. Or they can put up in the village.”

“No, we’ll find them rooms,” the housekeeper said. But Mr. Wilson barely acknowledged it. 

“Then, Monsieur Courbet, the chef,” he continued, his pronunciation plummy and french, and Richard genuinely couldn’t help an amused smile take over his mouth. He smothered it as Mrs. Patmore stepped into the conversation, but he could feel eyes on him. 

Then, surprisingly, the under-cook spoke up, “And we don’t cook any of the food?”

No one in the Downton staff seemed taken aback by her voicing a concern, and Mr. Barrow and the Housekeeper didn't blink at all. Mr. Wilson, however, was edging towards an outburst. 

“Cook for the servants,” he offered, voice high and strained, only getting higher and more strained at the unwelcome exchange with the offended and confused Housekeeper. Before it could devolve into an actual argument, which Richard could see coming from a mile-off, given the Housekeeper’s simple abruptness and Mr. Wilson’s pomposity, Mr. Barrow interrupted: 

“You mean, during the stay,” he started, concerned but not annoyed, which was likely only to frustrate Wilson more. “You’ll be the Butler, and—”

Richard was petty and childish to have been praying for this moment. It happened so rarely that all the ingredients were present to set Mr. Wilson off. 

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Wilson snipped, his tone quick and superior. “I am not a Butler.”

The concern on Mr. Barrow’s face slid off rapidly to be replaced by a pair of high eyebrows. He mouthed, _Oh_ , and it took everything in Richard’s power to keep from snorting. 

“I am the King’s Page of the Backstairs,” Mr. Wilson asserted. 

These words were met with a very long pause, as they tend to do outside of London. Richard vowed never in his life try to explain to Mr. Wilson precisely why it is so ridiculous to insist on this title, a title no one outside Buckingham Palace gives an honest hoot about. Mr. Barrow looked on the verge of a laugh, and the rest of the staff were taken aback but trying to follow his blank-faced lead. One poor housemaid giggled, but so quick Mr. Wilson couldn't catch her. 

After Mr. Wilson handed out the schedules, he clipped his heels together and asked a footman to return him to the car, leaving Ms. Lawton and Richard to deal in his wake, par for the course. As his footsteps faded away, the man to Mr. Barrow’s right let out a chuckle and said, “Blimey.”

The younger members took this as permission to start giggling, but some of the older staff were still clearly offended. Richard saw the opportunity and took it, approaching the still befuddled Housekeeper, hand held out. 

“You must be the Housekeeper,” he said. “I’m Richard Ellis. I don't think I caught your name?”

It was a bit more polite than he would naturally default to, but it seemed like she could use an extra dose. 

“It's a pleasure, Mr. Ellis,” she said, shaking his hand efficiently, “Correct, I am Mrs. Hughes, the Housekeeper. This is our cook and undercook, Mrs. Patmore and Daisy. Next to them is Ms. Baxter, her Ladyship’s maid, and across from them is Mr. Bates, His Lordship’s valet, and Anna, Lady Mary’s maid and head housemaid.”

They all nodded at him one by one, and at Ms. Lawton, who was gathering her things behind him. 

“And, of course, you’ve already met Mr. Barrow, our Butler,” Mrs Hughes continued, ushering Mrs. Patmore and Daisy back to the kitchen wordlessly. 

_‘Our’ Butler?_ Richard wanted to remark but simply nodded politely. 

“Alright, girls,” Mrs. Hughes said, turning to the housemaids gathered like ducklings at her side. “Back to work, come on.”

“Anna,” Mr. Barrow said, stepping aside so she could pass him. “Could you show Ms. Lawton to her room? Andy, go check upstairs, serve their tea, if you don’t mind. Alfred, can you help Mr. Ellis with his luggage?”

The staff faded back to their duties and Mr. Barrow stepped next to him. “I’ll show you to your room, if you don’t mind Mr. Ellis.”

His face was back to the genial service-blank from before, but Richard could detect no hostility in his manner, so perhaps his gesture to Mrs. Hughes was a good calculation. As he followed Mr. Barrow back up the stairs, he nodded at a couple housemaids lugging buckets and they flushed and giggled. Richard kept a straight face when he turned away, but only just. While Barrow hardly seemed a harsh driver, it would be very foolish to encourage anything from the younger women (or _any_ women) on the Downton staff. And, inexplicably, despite hardly knowing a thing about him, Richard wanted Mr. Barrow to like him. 

~

“We have supper after upstairs dinner,” Mr. Barrow said. “So you’ve plenty of time.”

Richard was finally able to tear away his gaze away from Mr. Barrow’s shoulders and the prim cut of his hairline.

“Thanks,” he said, ducking past Barrow and into his temporary quarters. 

“How does it work?” Mr. Barrow asked, standing in the doorway. “With two valets?”

Surprised at the curiosity (Mr. Barrow’s supreme un-ruffled-ness in the face of Mr. Wilson gave him the impression that he simply didn’t care at all), Richard turned back to his bag to hide a flush. 

“Well, I prepare His Majesty’s uniform and clothes for Downton,” he said. “Then when Mr. Miller arrives, I get the stuff for Harewood ready. Then I head back to London and prepare for their return.”

He met Mr. Barrow’s eyes again. They were clear and attentive and Richard felt himself smiling under their weight. 

“It all overlaps,” he said. 

“So,” Mr. Barrow asked, “Mr. Miller’s the one who actually dresses the King?” 

The edge of bemusement was poking through again, the same sharpness from before when Mr. Wilson had tried to scold him downstairs.

“Unless he’s ill,” he replied. “Then it's me.”

Suddenly, all pretense of courtesy vanished from Mr. Barrow’s demeanour, and he asked, cutting, on the edge of a laugh, “Is he often ill?”

It felt good, it felt a pure relief, to respond in kind, to play some hand in Mr. Barrow’s joke. 

“No,” he said, simple and knowing. 

At that Barrow finally cracked a smile. He wasn’t as young as Richard initially thought—possibly in his mid-thirties, with beautiful lines around his eyes and mouth—and as he walked away Richard hung his head back to sigh heavily. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he cursed. 

~

After unpacking, he tramped down to the servant’s hall to find someone who could show him the way to the King’s quarters. He ran into Anna and Mr. Bates on the way, Mr. Bates carrying a very small boy, wailing into Mr. Bates's neck, and muttering, “We _could_ just ask Thomas--you know how he is.”

“Yes, I do,” Anna was saying as she tied the little boy’s shoe. “ _I_ know he’s _very busy_ and we can’t keep bothering him about this—”

“He’s better than the Nanny,” Bates groused. "She doesn't even want to teach them to blow their own noses."

“He’s _busy_.” 

“Might as well ask! He’s not the kind to say 'yes' just to please.”

Richard slipped past them, figuring they were both too occupied to give him a tour. He made his way into the kitchens, where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy and another maid were bustling and shouting. The girls' northern accents were homey and appealing and Richard didn’t feel a bit guilty trying to enlist their help. 

“Mrs. Patmore, right?” he asked stepping into a safe corner by the desk, to keep as out of the way as he could. 

“Yes, who’s asking,” she replied before looking up from her work. “Oh, Mr. Ellis! How’re you settling in?”

“You’re the King’s valet, aren’t you?” Daisy asked before he could reply. 

“Yes, Daisy, well-observed, we were all there,” Mrs. Patmore said, smacking the dough with her rolling pin. 

“I was only asking!” Daisy protested. 

“Well, seeing’s as he’s the only one of that lot to give us his name himself, I would hope you wouldn’t have to,” Mrs. Patmore answered, mercilessly.

Daisy shot Mrs. Patmore a dirty look before turning to Richard. 

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Ellis?” she asked. “Only, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“Thank you kindly, Daisy,” he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But I was actually hoping to find someone to show me where His Majesty will be staying.”

“Lord!” the kitchen maid exclaimed. “Listen to that! His _majesty_.” 

“Do we have to confirm for a _third_ time that Mr. Ellis is, in fact, the King’s valet,” Mrs. Patmore said, not even looking at the blushing girl. “Or should I clean the wax from your ears?”

“It’s the actual _King_ , Mrs. Patmore!” the girl responded, un-bothered by the vitriol, possibly very used to it. 

“Ugh,” Daisy said as she pulled down several cups and saucers. “What does it matter?”

At that, Mrs. Patmore finally took her attention off the pastry in front of her. “Daisy! What sort of impression are you going to give to Mr. Ellis?”

“He’s as downstairs as the rest of us,” Daisy said, aggressively setting the tea-tray with the modest servant’s china. “I’m sure I’m not the first republican he’s met!”

Mrs. Patmore spluttered a bit and looked as if she was about to smother Daisy with her tea-towel. Richard was absolutely delighted. 

“Ever met a republican before, Mr. Ellis?” Daisy asked, nose up in the air, defiant, as if she had invented the concept. 

He grinned at the pair of them and the closely listening kitchen-maid. 

“I’m as downstairs as the rest of you, aren’t I?” he replied. 

Daisy’s face lit up. 

“What’s the world coming to?” Mrs. Patmore moaned, dramatic and put-upon. “Even the King’s valet doesn’t want a King.”

“How does that work, then?” the kitchen-maid interjected. “If there’s no King, you’re out of a job, aren’t you?” 

“Betsy,” Daisy answered before Richard could. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand. Just because _I_ work for His Lordship doesn’t mean I think it’s right he’s got this big house—“

“Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore snapped. “Must you go on?”

“Of course, I must!” Daisy said, plopping down a jar of sugar and a cup of teaspoons.

“It’s not polite!”

“ _Thomas_ says I can talk about whatever I want down here,” Daisy said, somehow still able to neatly pour a cup of tea while glaring daggers at Mrs. Patmore. 

“ _Mr. Barrow_ says a lot of things,” Mrs Patmore said. “But I doubt he’d think it appropriate to go on about politics in front of a member of the Royal Household!”

Daisy turned to Richard and asked, “Milk or sugar?”

“Pardon?” he said. 

She pointed to the tea-cup and something in her face told Richard not to refuse it.

“Ah, um, two sugars, if you don’t mind,” he said.

She grinned at him and handed the cup and saucer off before making one for Mrs. Patmore, Betsy, and herself. 

“Have you been all over, then?” Daisy asked. “India and all that?”

Richard blew a little on his tea and nodded, “Briefly. I haven’t been the second valet for long. But you can ask Mr. Miller all about it when he gets here, tomorrow.”

“Is Mr. Miller a republican, too?” Daisy asked. 

“Daisy,” Mrs. Patmore sighed deeply. But Richard was too busy laughing to hear the rest of what she said. 

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” Richard managed. “I would dearly love to see you ask him, though.”

“If he’s not, why would you want her to ask?” Betsy said, baffled. 

“To cause trouble, no doubt,” Mrs. Patmore said, leaping on the question and pointing the end of her rolling-pin at him. “And here I thought the Royal Household might be better behaved.”

Richard threw his most charming grin her way and replied, “Did Mr. Wilson give you that impression?”

That nearly cracked her gruff surface but she held fast. 

“Don’t you spend too much time with Thomas, now,” she grumbled. “That’ll be the last thing we need.”

Daisy and Betsy seemed to understand this remark and exchanged a pair of cheeky grins. 

“Thomas, I take it, is Mr. Barrow,” Richard asked, drinking his tea to mask the depth of his curiosity. 

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Patmore waved her hand. “But I remember when he started here as a boy so I’m allowed to call him what I want.”

“Not sure that’s how it works, Mrs. Patmore,” Betsy said, bravely.

“It is how it works in _my_ kitchen.”

Richard concentrated hard on nonchalance and asked, “He’s a bit young to be Butler, isn’t he?”

“He’s only been Butler for a year and half,” Daisy said, leaning against the sink and sipping at her tea. “And Carson only retired because his hands sort of stopped working. It happened really quickly.”

“I like him better than Carson,” Betsy said, with the air of someone going into battle. 

“All the young staff do,” Mrs. Patmore said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t know better.”

“Well, _I_ know him better than you, and _I_ like him better than Carson,” Daisy said .

“The chauffeur, Paul, said he was kind,” Richard said without thinking. 

“He is!” Betsy said. “He gave me a whole weekend off to visit my mum!”

“What in god’s green earth is a weekend?” Mrs. Patmore muttered to herself. 

“Wait, who were you looking for again?” Daisy asked, before Betsy could retort to Mrs. Patmore. 

“Someone who could show me where the King will be staying,” said Richard. “So I might prepare his clothes.”

Daisy set her cup down on the counter and skipped off, saying, “I’ll grab someone for you.”

Richard drained as much tea as he could once she left, avoiding Betsy’s considering gaze. 

“Just admit it, Mrs. Patmore,” Betsy said. “Things are much nicer here than with Mr. Carson.”

Mrs. Patmore started to say, “If you don’t get a move on—”

But Daisy waltzed in with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Barrow at her heels. 

“Here you go!” she said, waving her arm widely. In another surprising turn, Mr. Barrow held the little boy from earlier on his hip. “Mr. Ellis needs help finding out where the King’s staying. Did you know he’s a republican? Imagine _that_. The King’s valet a republican.”

Richard snorted softly at the simultaneous pair of ‘looks’ he got from Mr. Barrow and Mrs. Hughes. “Best not spread that around, Daisy,” he said, setting his tea-cup in the sink. 

“You’re the one who told me,” Daisy said. 

“I implied it,” he corrected. “To be _discreet_.”

She appeared ready to stick out her tongue so he looked away to give her leave to do so. He met Mr. Barrow’s eyes, taking in how he’d pressed his lips together to fight a grin, and Richard tried not to show how pleased he was to inspire such a reaction. 

“What is it that you need, Mr. Ellis?” Mrs Hughes asked, running her finger down a long list, distracted. 

“I just need someone to show me where the King’s quarters are,” he said, tiring of the phrase. “A hall-boy or someone.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Hughes said. She glanced at Mr. Barrow and asked, “Think you could manage? Only, I’ve got to hop into town and Anna said Lady Mary needs—”

“‘Course, Mrs. Hughes,” Mr. Barrow interrupted. “I was headed up there now.”

“Excellent,” she said, before squeezing his arm, petting the little boy’s back, and briskly walking off. 

“This way, Mr. Ellis,” Mr. Barrow said. 

Richard nodded at the three women, all watching closely, and followed after him. 

~

(“Lord, but he’s _handsome_ ,” Betsy said after Mr. Ellis left. “Wish he was _my_ valet.”

“Betsy, you have a mouth,” Mrs. Patmore scolded. 

“Don’t pretend like it’s not true, Mrs. Patmore!” Betsy said. “All tall and friendly with golden waves for hair. I reckon he really liked you, Daisy.”

“His hair was brown. And Daisy has enough suitors,” said Mrs. Patmore. 

“Why did he talk to Paul about Thomas?” Daisy asked.)

~

Richard caught up to Mr. Barrow to walk with him side-by-side. He was moving slower than before, probably because of the child. 

“And who else is leading the way to King’s room?” Richard asked, nodding to the quiet boy resting on Mr. Barrow’s shoulder.

Mr. Barrow’s expression was pure affection as he turned it on his charge. 

“This is little Johnnie,” he said. “The Bates’s child. He’s had a bit of a stressful afternoon but his parents are in a high-demand at the moment.”

“Mr. Bates and Anna?” Richard asked. 

“Yes, valet and lady’s maid to His Lordship and Lady Mary,” Barrow explained. “Toffs don’t like children being about, outside the scheduled hour, that is, so they’ve dropped him off with me until he’s ready to get back to the nursery with the others.”

The ready and bitter scorn laying underneath Barrow’s description of the Lord and Lady Grantham was more biting than Richard expected, yet still charming. 

Johnnie whined and pushed his face further into Barrow’s shoulder. 

“He’s a shy one,” Barrow said, his voice back to thick-affection. “Sometimes it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the other children, isn’t it, Johnnie?”

“There’s no doubt about that,” said Richard. “I’m not one for a crowd either.”

They paused on the landing so Barrow could shift Johnnie into a more secure position on his side. Johnnie peaked an eye out at Richard and Richard was quick to pull-back his grin into a more welcoming smile. He wiggled his fingers a bit and Johnnie blinked at him before turning back into Barrow’s jacket. 

“Of course,” continued Richard as they made it to the second floor of the house. “If I had a strong Butler to carry me around whenever I got upset, I’d probably get upset as often as I could.”

Mr. Barrow’s reaction to that was equal parts bewildered, flattered, and amused. 

“Do you hear that Johnnie?” Barrow asked, stepping to the side of the hallway so a couple hall-boys could pass. “Do you hear what he’s accusing you of? You certainly don’t want this sort of behavior getting back the King, now do you?”

Richard was smiling too much—he needed to calm down. 

“I won’t say a word, Johnnie,” said Richard. “We all need a cuddle every now and then.”

At that, Barrow visibly blushed and it took a very sharp mental-slap for Richard not to stare at the pink on his shapely pale cheekbones. 

“Well, here we are,” Barrow said, stopping outside the doorway, in much the same way as earlier, only for a much grander room. “Please remember your way back. Can’t be bothered to hold your hand for the rest of the day.”

Richard chuckled as he made to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves. 

“How gallant of you, Mr. Barrow,” he said. 

“Never been accused of that in my entire life,” replied Barrow, with a very pointed grin. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Ring the bell if you need anything. The hall-boys know they’re at your beck and call.”

“Thank you, again,” said Richard, before Barrow could march out. 

Barrow’s gaze dropped to Richard’s now bare forearms and back up, but he made no remark about the impropriety. 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Ellis,” he said. 

~

Richard was very disappointed, in a way that was almost childish, to not see Mr. Barrow for the rest of the day. With all the preparations for their majesties, he had nearly forgotten that there was an actual Family that Barrow needed to attend. It wasn’t until the servant’s supper that he saw him, sitting at the end of the table, speaking softly to Mrs. Hughes. 

Richard was sat on the other side of Anna, across from Ms. Baxter, and he was greatly relieved that Barrow seemed to run the sort of house that was far more open about rank than Richard was used to. Buckingham palace was highly regimented and if Mr. Wilson were here, he would have insisted that the three of them sit at the head of the table together—but as it is, he finds himself chatting happily with Anna and dodging Mr. Molesley’s very enthusiastic questions about shoe polish. 

“Forgive him,” Ms. Baxter interrupted before Mr. Molesley could ask another. “He hasn’t worked in service for over a year now and wants to be prepared.”

Richard smile at her amicably and asked, “And where have you been working, then, Mr. Molesley, if not in service?”

“I’m a schoolteacher,” he replied. “For the village children.”

Richard whistled lowly. “Impressive.”

Mr. Molesley turned red. 

After supper, Richard hung around the servant’s hall with a book, hoping Mr. Barrow might linger, but it was to no avail. The hall-boys and maids all hesitated at the table, egging each other on to invite him into their card-game, but Mrs. Hughes shooed them off to bed before Mr. Barrow walked her home. The only person left after an hour was Ms. Baxter, patching up what looked like a shawl. 

He was just about to head up to bed himself when she asked out without prompting, “How’re you liking Downton Abbey, so far?”

The only images Richard’s exhausted mind was able to conjure were the pink flush on Mr. Barrow’s high cheek, the gentle hand on Johnnie’s back, the crinkly grin holding back a laugh…

He felt absolutely ridiculous. 

“Very welcoming,” he said. 

“That’s good to hear,” she replied. “I was worried that with all the toes being stepped on, there might be some contention.”

“Ah, no,” said Richard, awkward. “Everyone’s been perfectly cordial.”

Ms. Baxter looked pleased. 

“Do you think—” he started to say but cut himself off, remembering the basic rules of etiquette a little too late. 

“Do I think what?” she asked, putting down her needle. 

“Oh, I just know that sometimes it can be a little difficult, and I was hoping we hadn’t truly offended anyone,” he supplied, feeling sweaty. 

Maybe Ms. Baxter was a mind-reader or just very perceptive, because she asked, “Anyone in particular?”

Which was really what Richard had wanted to ask about. He remembered Ms. Baxter as the woman who so sweetly greeted Mr. Barrow earlier and he was sure that they were close. It was an effort not to ply her with questions. The brief sparks of companionship in his interaction with the house's ‘kind’ Butler were almost overwhelming for how small they were. He desperately tried to keep his mind from straying into fantasy, but the ease of Mr. Barrow’s presence, his intrigue, his bitterness combined with his kindness, were making it difficult to long for anything else. 

“I just know that most Butlers are a bit unwilling to be pushed aside, in that way,” Richard ventured, knowing if he said the name he might reveal to much. 

Ms. Baxter’s face relaxed at the word ‘Butler,’ though, making a muscle in Richard’s own heart relax with it. 

“I don’t think you have to worry about Mr. Barrow, Mr. Ellis,” she replied. “He’s as tough as they come. And he’s very used to dealing with stuffy, commanding people, as I’m sure you can gather.”

Richard nodded, fighting his own heated face, and said, “Well, thanks, then, Ms. Baxter.”

~

The next morning, everyone was busier than the day before, preparing for the arrival of the Royal household. The hot water went off and as Richard found his way to the shoe room, he saw Mr. Barrow rushing upstairs, cursing with half-finished words under his breath. 

A little over an hour later, Richard was back in the kitchen for a cup of tea, watching Daisy grow more and more irritated as she ranted about a certain Lady Mary. 

“It’s not fair, and everyone knows it,” she concluded. Mrs. Patmore was out so it was just Betsy there, trying to calm her down. 

“I’m sure Lady Mary doesn’t—”

“I know _exactly_ what Lady Mary thinks—” Daisy hissed. 

“I hope you’re not about to insult a Lady of this house, Daisy,” said Mrs. Hughes as she walked through the back-door. 

“Well she insulted—”

“Daisy!”

“Am I missing something?” said Alfred, skipping in with a frown. 

Richard shrugged. “I haven’t been able to work it out yet. I think Lady Mary sent someone away?”

“Who?” he asked. 

“Mr. Barrow!” Daisy shouted, tossing her towel onto the counter. 

Mrs. Hughes breathed in and out slowly while Richard dropped his biscuit stupidly on the floor. 

“What?” he asked, feeling cold. 

“Oh, it’s only for the Royal visit,” Mrs. Hughes explained, but still visibly a little upset. “Lady Mary, I think, wanted both of them, Mr. Carson and Mr. Barrow, that is, but Mr. Barrow decided to simply step down for the duration.”

“It wasn’t really _his_ decision, though, was it?” said Daisy sourly. 

Ms. Baxter came in from the back door, as well, rubbing her cheek sadly. Mrs. Hughes turned to her, a querying look, and Ms. Baxter said, “He’s alright. He promised me.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded but both Betsy and Alfred seemed confused. Daisy seemed to grow angrier. 

While they continued to argue, Richard discreetly backed out of the kitchen and walked briskly towards the servant’s hall to find the other back entrance. He emerged into a patch of bright, sunlit cobblestone, the storm clouds gathering miles off leaving them in a bit of peace for the morning. He saw Mr. Barrow sat on top a wooden table, feet on the bench, jacket off, and smoking. 

Richard abruptly realized how silly it was to try and find him, but the whole scene was so inviting that he pushed forward, anyway.

“Why so glum?” he called as he approached. 

Barrow shook himself a little to focus on Richard, and Richard tried very hard not glow when Barrow smiled sweetly at him. 

“Mr. Ellis,” he greeted. “Fancy a smoke?” he offered the package and Richard happily closed the distance between them to grab one. His heart beat hard on his ribcage as he leaned into Barrow’s space to accept a light, but the warm air, drier than yesterday, and the cloying smell of Barrow’s aftershave made him feel more serene than he had in a long time. 

“I suspect you’ve heard the news,” Barrow said, shuffling his feet on the chipping paint of the bench. “That I’ve been made surplus to necessary.”

“Yes, I heard,” Richard replied mildly. “I think Daisy is ready to start a war on your behalf.”

Mr. Barrow bit his bottom lip, clearly flattered at the thought. 

“I suppose you know who’s replacing you,” Richard ventured airily. 

“Unluckily,” Barrow said, taking a deep puff. 

“Luckily for me, however,” Richard said, looking up at the sky as if it was easy to take his gaze from Barrow’s hands. 

“How’s that?” huffed Barrow. 

“I need an insider’s information,” said Richard. “Need to know how to charm the man.”

Richard was more gratified than he had any right to be that Barrow understood him perfectly and took the remark in good humor. His hair gleamed almost brown in the sunlight as he tilted his head down to chuckle. The smoke from his cigarette curled around his face, drifting away from his wryly parted mouth, gave the whole look of him an extra ethereal glow. 

“Well, go on, then,” Richard gestured with his hand, and, after catching Mr. Barrow’s side-glance, nudged his knee a little with his own. “What’s he like? How do you get on his good side?”

“How prepared are you to express your deepest desire for obedience to the crown?” Mr. Barrow asked, taking another puff. 

“I _am_ the King’s valet, Mr. Barrow,” Richard said, smirking. “Surely I’ve got more claim on loyalty to the crown than most.”

“Do you, though?” Barrow didn’t hesitate to ask. 

Richard eyed him, his face clear and watching, and checked around the courtyard under the guise of flicking his cigarette. 

“No,” he said slowly. “I really don’t.”

Barrow snorted. 

“How disappointing,” he said in mock devastation. “The King’s own manservant. A radical.”

Richard couldn’t help but laugh at that. 

“Hold on now, Mr. Barrow,” Richard pleaded. “I’ve only said I can’t claim more loyalty to the King than any other.”

“Mr. Carson would have you express devotions in Hours, like a Nun,” Barrow said, putting out his own cigarette and leaning back one hand to tilt his face into the sun. “Though, I suppose that’s what life as a valet is, really. How different are vestigial prayers and the like from picking off dog-hairs one by one before breakfast?”

Richard laughed again, the feeling of release coming easier each time. 

“Same level of assumed chastity as well,” Richard groused, pointing vaguely upwards to indicate ‘upstairs.’ 

“Bloody toffs,” Barrow whispered, looking at Richard carefully, under a rather charmed smile. 

“I take it this is why this Mr. Carson doesn’t approve of you, then?” Richard asked. “Not a fan of the monarchy?”

Barrow shook his head and tilted his face into the sun again. 

“Among other reasons,” Barrow said. “I imagine that, to him, I represent the downfall of civilization.”

Richard said through a grin, “Really? That’s all?”

And that’s what finally got a full laugh out Barrow. He leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs, chuckling like a honeyed crackle of gravel or breaking frost. 

“Aye, that’s all,” Barrow replied. “You think I’m exaggerating but once a couple years ago we opened up the house for a public viewing to raise money for the village hospital and Mr. Carson was _not_ happy about it.”

“How many villagers did he accuse of thievery?” Richard asked, putting out his cigarette and letting his hand linger near Barrow’s hip. 

“Oh, practically everyone,” Barrow said, with a faux-thoughtful look. “He stalked around the house, brandishing his favorite cane, just begging anyone to try.”

Something dark flashed across Barrow’s otherwise relaxed face but it vanished in second and his wry grin returned. 

“Anyway, before it all happened, we were sitting around the servant’s hall talking about it amongst ourselves,” he continued. “And Mr. Bates said he couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to pay to see someone else’s bedrooms. When I explained that sometimes I’m curious to see whether someone else is having a better time than I am, Mr. Carson said that that’s the sort of thing that leads to, I believe his phrase was, ‘a guillotine in Trafalgar Square.’”

At the last words, he dropped his voice deeper and straightened out his posture to an absurd approximation of some kind of war general. Richard snorted and choked on his own breath in surprise at the affectation, and had to cough through his laughter. 

“Blimey,” he said. “What did you say to that?”

Barrow cast his eyes down, cheeks a bit flushed, and returned to resting on his legs. 

“Nothing,” he replied. “I think Mrs. Hughes called him an optimist, if I recall correctly.”

Richard raised his eyebrows, at that. “Cheeky.”

“Yes, she’s always cheeky to him,” Barrow said, his face still pink. “I’m not entirely sure he pays enough attention to her to notice.”

“Aren't they married?”

Barrow just shrugged and said, “Are you saying that should make a difference?”

“Fair enough,” Richard conceded. “A guillotine in Trafalgar square, though. Bit dire. Is that an unusual thing for him to say?”

“Certainly not,” Barrow laughed. “Par for the course, truly. At one point in that conversation Daisy argued that all these grand houses should be open all the time and Carson sort of accused her wanting to tear down the Law of Property, the ‘cornerstone of all civilization worthy of the name.’ I remember that clearly. Reminded me of how one time a housemaid innocently wondered aloud at dinner about whether we should even be fighting in South Africa and he spent the rest of dinner lecturing us about Thomas Hobbes.”

Richard shook his head, genuinely struck. He never thought he would encounter that flavor of patriotism outside the palace, but evidently the country was rife with it.

“Not sure even the King would be prepared to defend himself that much,” he mused. “Of course, being the King, he wouldn’t really have to.”

“Suppose not,” Barrow said. 

“Is that really what he sounds like? Carson?” Richard asked, referring Barrow’s impressions. 

“More or less,” Barrow said. “I gather that the longer you stay in service, the more gravity will add to your bearing on the whole, so even when you say the most ridiculous things, people will still take you seriously.”

“Hmm,” Richard said, tapping a finger on his chin, and squeezing his voice to match Mr. Wilson’s. “How do you explain our ‘King’s Page of the Backstairs,’ our ‘Master of the Back Door’?” 

Barrow’s gaze snapped to Richard, but Richard wasn’t done, continuing on in Mr. Wilson’s voice. “Keeper of the Back Entrance? The Guardian of the Derriere? Bottom Keyholder?”

At this point Barrow was bent in half, wheezing into his palms, trying to contain the echos of his guffaws across the courtyard. Richard himself basked in the warmth of it, bouncing off the damp cobbled-stones like sunlight. 

“You’re much more impressive than I am, I see,” Barrow said. “And under a far-more ridiculous superior.”

Richard wondered that he would use the present tense to refer being Carson’s inferior but decided not to poke. 

“I don’t know, Mr. Barrow,” he said, taking a risk and pushing closer to Barrow’s shoulder with his own. “I’m going to be laughing myself to sleep, thinking about guillotines in Trafalgar Square tonight.”

Barrow accepted the pressure from Richard’s arm, and while he didn’t push back, he didn’t move away either. It seemed his body was now un-starched and Richard had a sudden and snappish longing to stretch out next to it, to press his forehead to Barrow’s full upper-arm, and breath in his clean scent.

“Can you do anyone else?” Barrow asked. “Other than Mr. Wilson?”

Richard flushed at the question, at being asked to show-off.

“Of course,” Richard said, flashing a cocky grin at him. “Have to find some way to amuse myself—might eat a bullet otherwise.”

He was able to track Barrow’s reaction to that, how he looked as if he could just let the comment slide but decided against it. 

“Do you hate service that much?” Barrow asked softly, his voice the softest Richard had yet to hear it. 

Richard felt his own face match the tone without his permission, and he knew that if anyone were to stumble upon this scene now, they would see the fond sincerity pouring off him like steam. 

“I don’t hate it,” he replied, obfuscating but wanting to be honest. “I feel nothing for it, I think.”

“That might be worse than hating it, in Carson’s view,” Barrow said, light but understanding. 

“How do _you_ feel about service?” Richard asked, worried now he had stepped in it. 

“I feel like it’s as good as it will get for me, for the sort of person I am.”

Richard could immediately tell that this was more honest than Barrow was intending, as he ducked his head again and reached for another cigarette and his lighter. 

“I’m not sure I can believe that just yet, Mr. Barrow,” Richard said. 

Barrow huffed. 

“No, really,” Richard insisted. “I like to gather all the facts before I come to a conclusion. I’m very scientific.”

Barrow’s sweet and bemused air returned quick as he replied sarcastically, “Oh, I could see that about you instantaneously.”

“Yes,” Richard said, putting on the voice of a posh professor who came down to the servant’s hall one night at Buckingham to read from a very dry volume of moralistic philosophy, like some sort of academic missionary for the poor and uneducated souls downstairs. “Yes, I’ve recently been working on a full rebuttal of all Aristotle phenomenological arguments. You may have heard of it?”

Barrow laughed and said, “Aristotle? That seems a little amateurish, a little easy. He’s just a pagan, after all, with all the Greek vices.” 

Richard felt a electric shock go up his spine at the response, but, remarkably, was even more delighted by the joke. 

“Mr. Barrow!”

If Richard had not been privy to Barrow’s impressions of the man, he would not have recognized Mr. Carson on the spot, but, he had been and therefore did, and, though it was probably petty and unfair, he took a quick and irrevocable dislike of the man. 

“May I inquire as to how you are currently occupying yourself?” Carson raised a single dark eyebrow, managing to convey both a deep disdain and an attitude that he was above such an emotion. Standing in the back doorway, in the afternoon sun, he looked flustered and annoyed, to Richard, much like every Butler the Royal Household sweep aside on their tours (every Butler except the bemused Barrow, that is). 

“Is there a problem, Mr. Carson,” Barrow returned, his voice unbothered but with that same tension in his shoulders from before. 

“I am only wondering if perhaps there are more productive tasks you might apply yourself to,” Carson replied, steady and patronizing. Richard clenched his fists, but kept his face genial and open. 

“As it happens, no, Mr. Carson,” Barrow said. “I’m not on duty.”

Carson’s baffled and offended frown eloquently expressed what he thought of that response. He turned on his heel, mumbling a sulfurous, “Very well,” as he stepped back inside. 

Richard watched Barrow relax into the sun again, running a hand over his face. 

“Mr. Barrow,” he said in a rough approximation of Carson’s voice, without thinking. “Your vest needs pressing.”

Barrow glanced down and then smiled gratefully at him, saying, “It appears so. Do you happen to know any valets who could help?”

~


	3. Chapter 3

> _For one must distinguish the desire for power from the need to become empowered—that is, seeing oneself as capable of and having the right to determine one’s life._
> 
> Barbara Christian, _The Race for Theory_

* * *

They talked so long that the sun was on the other side of the sky, and the storm-clouds were starting to bump into each over head, by the time someone came to fetch Richard.

Barrow was finishing up another story about the oldest child in the house (Sybbie was apparently all set to be a domineering do-good-er, which Barrow seemed to be actively encouraging). He managed to say through his own giggling. “Sybbie, of course, did _not_ appreciate the imposition.” 

Richard sagely added, wanting Barrow to know that he was on the side of justice, “There really should’ve been a legal inquiry.”

Barrow laughed, letting his head fall back. “When she's old enough, I’m sure there will be,” he replied. 

The sound of the back-door opening echoed over the courtyard and they both whipped around, sobering up in a flash. 

“Charlie?” Richard said, standing up, his body mourning the loss of Barrow’s near heat, reaching for his pocket-watch. “You’re here early.”

One of the footmen from the Royal Household stood breathing hard on the doorstep. 

“Oh, thank the lord, Dick,” he gasped. “Mr. Miller just arrived. Mr. Wilson is on a righteous tear looking for you. Courbet is driving everyone up the wall because his order hasn’t arrived. One of the cooks said you might be out here.”

Richard glanced back at Barrow, whose warm edges had retreated back into what Richard could now recognize as an almost impenetrable distance. Barrow nodded at him, as permission, and Richard wanted, more than anything he’d ever wanted before, to press a goodbye kiss to Barrow’s forehead, like his father did to his mum everyday before leaving for work. 

“I’ll talk to you later, Mr. Barrow,” he said, somewhat breathless. “You’ll stick around?”

“I do live here, Mr. Ellis,” said Barrow dryly. Before Richard could feel properly foolish, though, he continued, “I’ll see you at dinner, I expect. If you can make it through the coming blood-bath that is.”

Richard nodded and let himself look at Barrow’s pale and prim face, parts of his neck peaking out from his loose collar, before turning round. 

“Who the bloody hell was that?” Charlie muttered as Richard followed him inside. “Does this house have an under-butler?”

“No, Chuck,” Richard said. “They just temporarily have a different one.” 

“This place is mad,” Charlie said. “D'you know? the cook told me to make my own tea when I asked for a cuppa.”

~

  
The afternoon went from bliss to nightmare fairly quickly. Barrow and Richard had evidently missed staff luncheon, so he was starving through hours of polishing, brushing, and yes-sir-ing. On his way back from a hideously long lecture from Mr. Miller about something Mr. Miller had forgotten at Raby, he nearly ran into Mr. Carson carrying a tray of decanters. 

“Mr. Carson,” he said politely.

“Mr. Ellis,” Carson said, but not in way of greeting. 

“Yes, sir,” Richard came to a halt, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Can I help?”

“Yes, in fact, you can, I think,” Carson said, setting his tray on a hall table and mirroring Richard’s posture. Richard waited courteously while Carson regarded him. 

“I noticed you were talking to Mr. Barrow, earlier,” he finally said. 

Richard was so well-practiced in the art of deception at this point that it was muscle memory to relax his body, his face, and reply superficially, “Yes, Mr. Carson.”

Carson made a noise, a disappointed ‘humph,’ and said, “Yes, well, I simply want you to have whatever information you might need to make your stay more comfortable.”

This was out of nowhere so Richard simply tilted his head and blinked, a strategy that has served him well before when he needed to _not incriminate_ himself. 

“I only mean, Mr. Ellis,” said Carson. “That it would do you well to let Mr. Barrow... stay in the background for the duration of your visit here at Downton Abbey.”

“I do apologize, Mr. Carson,” said Richard, aiming for confused more than innocent. “But I don’t understand.”

Mr. Carson cleared his throat and said, “It would be better to spend your downtime with other members of staff, if you don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

The implication was now crystal clear to Richard. He pinched his wrist, hard, behind his back to keep himself from letting his burning-hot glee show. 

“I’m still not sure what you mean, Mr. Carson,” he said, hoping the strain of holding himself back didn’t show in his voice. “But I’ll take your advice. Hard not to, from a man like yourself.”

Carson was so easily mollified by this display that Richard wanted to scream. 

“That’s all I ask, Mr. Ellis,” he said, picking up his tray again and marching into the library. 

Richard twisted, chest heaving, and ducked behind the servant’s door. Blessedly, it was empty for the moment, as most of the staff were in the house still preparing. He put his body weight on the wall and counted down from twenty, willing his pulse to slow. 

“Christ,” he whispered. “Christ, christ, _christ_.”

~

Now, after that illuminating conversation, there were a few things that Richard felt sure enough to bet on. The first was that he knew now what Paul and Betsy and Daisy meant by calling Mr. Barrow kind. Carson, like Wilson, was evidently a real stickler for rules and appearances, and seemed to have a true loyalty to the Lord Grantham and his estate. Barrow, however, put his loyalty into something else. 

The second was that, due to this loyalty to appearances, Carson would keep a secret of which he most certainly did not approve. As a Butler, he likely directed others to do the same—keep secrets just to keep the house looking like everything was in order.

The third was blinding to Richard, in a way it shouldn’t be, after his many years in his particular world. It was too light, too hopeful, too sweet.

It had been so _long_. 

When Richard closed his eyes, he saw himself; he saw himself, kitted out armor meant to protect him from his own terror, wrapped into layers and layers of courtesy, in livery, in silver, suffocating in front of everyone, with no one reaching out to touch. Richard would sometimes wonder, lying awake or eating porridge or brushing down the King’s oxfords, if he could even scream should the occasion call for it. Can you strangle your own cries for so long that when you might need them, really need them, they wouldn’t come?

Richard knew Barrow might be a friend. They were kindred, in a way, and this was obvious, reliable, sturdy. Richard found it difficult to make connections with other servants, for a multitude of reasons, so to talk freely, to speak to another person as if there was no other point but to speak, to converse openly—this was already a precious gift. Now to think that Barrow was more like him than he had hoped? 

For exactly one moment, hiding in the stairwell, he let himself want it: to hold Barrow’s hand, to hold out his coat for him and wrap a scarf around his neck, to wake up to him, whispering his name into the early morning ( _Thomas, Thomas, darling, the sun has risen, and so must we_ ), to press his face into his chest like Johnnie had, seeking comfort, to laugh with him in the day, to kiss him until his mouth became raw. 

Slowly he tucked it away, fingers finding his pendant in his pocket, tracing the outline of the moon in the metal. The movement put him back together. 

~

Barrow sat next to him at dinner, his seat taken over somehow by both Carson and Wilson. Most of the Royal household were varying levels of put-out by the arrangement, but none wanted to go without food for the night, so they resigned themselves to sitting amongst the Downton staff. When Barrow pulled out the seat next to Richard’s, Richard physically sat on his left hand to keep from straying. 

“You’ve survived,” Barrow observed, running his eyes up and down Richard’s body, as if checking for battle-wounds. 

“No,” said Richard. “I’ve died actually.”

“You don’t much resemble a decomposing corpse,” said Barrow. “But it has been a few years since the war, so I suppose I’m out of practice.”

Richard should not be so charmed by such a dark joke. Yet he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. 

“Now that’s just disappointing, Mr. Barrow,” he said, straight-faced. “That sort of vulgarity is hardly respectable.”

Barrow simply watched his face, an eyebrow raised, waiting for a crack in Richard’s composure. 

“Well, it’s not often I get to sit by Mr. Barrow,” a chipper voice said, from across the table, startling them both. 

“Hello, Andy,” Barrow responded, voice rough. “Thank you so much for pointing that out.”

Andy shrugged, apologetic but still cheeky, glancing up the table to Carson sitting just to the right of Mr. Wilson. 

“Oh, leave him alone,” Ms. Baxter said, taking a seat next to Andy. “I’m happy to be sitting closer to you, as well. You and Mrs. Hughes never talk to anyone else at dinner, normally, so this will be a nice change.”

“I’ve already said you can sit wherever you like at mealtimes,” offered Barrow. 

“Yes, showing once again that somehow we’re all more respectable than you, the _Butler_ ,” Anna chimed in. Bates smirked at her side while Andy laughed. 

“That you think so hardly needs reminding,” Barrow responded. 

“Keep it light,” Ms. Baxter said, light herself. “And how was your day Mr. Ellis?”

“Very busy,” Richard replied. “Anytime His Majesty wears a uniform, it takes years off my life and hairs off Mr. Miller’s head.”

Barrow’s quiet chuckle mixed with the rest, but Richard felt he could pick it out if they were on a crowded street. 

“How about you, Mr. Barrow?” Richard asked. “Enjoying your time off?” 

“I actually spent the day looking after the children, to give Nanny one last break before the big performance,” Barrow said, calmly, as if this didn’t make Richard’s heart want to burst. 

“That’s lovely,” Richard managed to say, a little more breathlessly than was circumspect.

Thomas flushed, surprised, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. Richard wanted to press into it with his tongue.

~

Richard was back to polishing buttons and unearned medals after supper, per Mr. Miller’s earlier orders before he dashed back to Raby, and by the time he was finished, the servant’s hall was mostly empty. The revelations of the day were still racing through his mind, so he grabbed one of his books and made himself comfortable in front of the fire. The rain was growing heavier by the minute, and while everyone seemed rather terrified they would cancel the parade the following day, he felt cozy and assured and unbothered. The rain would pass by midnight. 

He shouldn’t have grabbed the book he did, but he was splintering at his pores and an unfathomable light was going to leak out if he didn’t find some sort of relief. 

Then Mr. Barrow walked in. 

He had fully transformed from trimmed-in Butler to sprightly young man. He had lost the tie and collar, the vest and jacket, and some of the hard pomade in his hair. His suspenders were loose and his shirtsleeves wrinkled, but he seemed in this way more put together than before. When he spotted Richard by the fire, his smile was achingly tender. 

“Off-duty, then?” he asked. 

“Not quite,” Richard said, keeping his voice low. “I’m still responsible for the clothes he arrives in tomorrow, and what he brings with him. But I should be released by noon.”

“Are you heading straight back to London?” Barrow asked, frowning slightly. 

“No, no,” said Richard. “I’m going to visit my parents in York, actually. And leave the morning after.”

“Are you close with your parents?” 

The question was deeply personal and therefore utterly exhilarating to answer. 

“I’m closer to my mum,” he replied. “Though I suppose that’s the same with everyone, isn’t it?”

“For most, maybe,” Barrow said. “And possibly for different reasons?”

Richard sent him a smile and continued, “I hardly get to see them. I wanted to spend the afternoon and evening with them tomorrow, alleviate some guilt for not making it up for Christmas last year.”

Barrow considered him for a moment and then said, in the same breathless way Richard had spoken at dinner, “That’s lovely.”

“Thomas!” Daisy popped her head around the corner. 

“Yes, Daisy,” said Barrow, not bothering to hide his irritation. 

“I think Lady Mary’s looking for you,” she said. “Alfred said that she said that she needs your help putting up the chairs.”

“Is this the same Lady Mary who called up Mr. Carson,” Richard asked before he could think it through. 

“The very same,” Daisy said. “I would make myself scarce.” And with that she vanished. 

Barrow rolled his eyes but rose from his chair. Panicking, Richard stood, too, and grabbed Barrow’s arm, for a quick second. 

“Hide out in my room, play some cards with me,” Richard offered. “They might try to find you in yours. And where else will you go in the rain?”

Barrow ducked his head to hide a bemused twist of his lips, and said, “It _is_ a rather large house, Mr. Ellis. But you’re right. And thank you.”

~

There was a cushy chair in the corner of Richard’s room, which Barrow pulled close to the bed. He sat down heavily and crossed his legs, one over the other, and the look of him in his wrinkled shirt and falling hair, was innocent and sweet. Richard sat across from him, in the same position, on the bed, and placed the card deck between them on the duvet. 

Though Richard wanted to _talk_ to Barrow more than anything, they played through several long minutes of comfortable silence. Something of the atmosphere, the pretense of true seclusion, the will to escape, sparked Richard's sense-memories.

“It’s almost like—” he said, interrupting the rhythm of the rain on the window, 

“Almost like…?” Barrow asked, focusing on his card-hand. 

“Just,” Richard started again, feeling even more vulnerable and careful in the candied atmosphere between them. “The sound of the rain, the cramped quarters, the cards, the damp.”

“Ah,” said Barrow, eyebrows coming together. “You mean the war.”

Richard couldn’t help his eyes from straying to the glove on Barrow’s left hand. 

“Sometimes, I almost miss it,” Richard admitted. “I truly _don’t_ miss it, but there were some things that were easier, in the muck.”

Barrow looked up at him, eyebrows still pinched, and mouth turned down.

“I,” he began, then cleared his throat. “I don’t think anything was easier for me.”

“Were you a batman?” Richard asked. 

Barrow shook his head and answered, “No, RAMC.”

“Oh.”

That, Richard could understand. His mind filled with memories of medics and stretcher-bearers, no weapons, darting back and forth across No-Man’s land, their only mission to watch man after man die and die. 

Barrow cleared his throat again and said, “What were you reading before, Mr. Ellis?”

He had clearly tried to sweep away the stilted air with a subject change, but this now seemed heavier than the first. 

“Just a book,” Richard tried. 

“Yes, but what book?”

“Book of American poetry.”

“...And which poet?”

Richard let himself just look at Barrow’s considerate face. 

“Walt Whitman,” he finally replied. 

There was a pregnant pause in which Barrow’s furrowed brow slowly smoothed and Richard counted his breaths maniacally. 

“ _The mockeries are not you_ ,” Barrow quoted in a whisper. “ _Underneath them and within them I see you lurk_.”

Richard froze and closed his eyes against the onslaught of unadulterated feeling. Then he nodded once and swung his feet off the bed to grab his deposited book off the nightstand. He climbed back on the bed, uncaring of the cards sliding everywhere and brought his knees to within a centimeter of Barrow’s chair and his shins. 

He flipped through the pages of his book, knowing the poem but not having memorized that stanza, and then read aloud, “ _I pursue you where none else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me. The shaved face,”_ he had to stop there to catch his wild heart, “The shaved face, _the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others they do not balk me. The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside._ ”

Barrow dropped his cards on the floor and just stared for a heavy beat. Then he tilted his flushed face, exposed to Richard’s sweet scrutiny, eyes glimmering, and said, “Are you an avid reader of Walt Whitman, Mr. Ellis?”

“Christ,” Richard couldn’t help but say. “Call me Richard.”

“Call me Thomas.”

“And, yes,” Richard said, thick. “I am. God help me, but I am.”

Thomas let out a shaky laugh and pushed a hand through his hair. “I am as well.”

He leaned back in his chair, his entire body seemingly cut from the ropes, and grinned at the ceiling. Richard grinned at the stretch of Thomas’s neck. 

“I must say,” Thomas began. “But this is far different from my usual encounters with…”

“Readers of Walt Whitman? Wilde aficionados? Experts on Sappho?”

“I’ve actually never met any of the _those,_ ” Thomas said. “As far as I’m aware, at least. Which we can certainly assume is very little. You’ve really surprised me, Mr. Ellis.”

“Richard,” Richard corrected, putting his arms on his thighs, wanting to cross the space between them. 

“Richard,” Thomas repeated, so soft it hurt to hear. Then he lifted his neck from the chair and bent forward again, letting their faces rest no more than a foot apart. “Have you? Met any followers of Sappho?”

“Only once,” Richard said. “The woman who gave me this book actually. A maid.” 

Thomas took the book from his hand and flipped through it himself, pausing curiously on the pages where Richard had left a mark, while Richard tracked a strand of hair migrating down Thomas’s forehead. 

“Why did she give it you?” Thomas asked. “Did she know?”

“I think she suspected,” Richard explained. “I was just barely sixteen when I started service. I knew absolutely nothing. We sort of drifted towards each other, can’t really explain how or why. And one evening after supper she said, ‘Dicky, listen to this.’ And read that exact passage to me.”

“Shaved face?” Thomas guessed. 

“I stopped her as we was reading it,” Richard said, tugging at his cuffs. “I remember asking her—I grabbed onto her arm, actually, really hard—I left a bruise and just about died from the guilt of it for a year after the fact—she wouldn’t hear any apology though. I was terrified and I grabbed her arm and said, ‘Shaved face?’ and then I just cried my heart out on her shoulder.”

Thomas set the book by his hip and very cautiously wrapped the fingers of his left hand around Richard’s wrist. There was just the barest hint of pressure but Richard would be hard-pressed to recall a single touch he had ever felt before that one. 

“What did she say to you?” Thomas asked. “Did she tell you what she was, then?”

Richard nodded, eyes fixed as firm as a brand on the back of Thomas’s hand. Amelia’s clever face floated in his peripherals but the bulk of his vision was taken up by the blonde hairs on Thomas's knuckles.

“Yes,” he said. “She told me. Did you never…” Richard wasn’t sure what he was asking. 

But Thomas understood. “Richard,” he said. “You’re not the first…man like me…that I’ve met. But, you’re the first I’ve _talked_ to. Just, talked.”

“Come to York with me tomorrow,” Richard replied, impulsively. 

Thomas met his gaze and nodded once. 

~

The next morning, Richard was up before the wake-up call. It had taken ages to fall asleep with the memory of Thomas’s hand on his arm and the deeply darling way he had said, “Goodnight, Richard,” under the patter of the rain. For the same reasons, his mind wouldn’t stay resting, so he was dressed and boiling water as the sun rose and Daisy came stumbling into the kitchen, yawning. 

“Good morning, Mr. Ellis,” Daisy said, putting her own tea-cup down next to his and fixing the bonnet in her hair. “Why’re you up so early?”

“The thrill of the day, Daisy,” Richard said. 

“I’m not sure when I should be taking you seriously,” she said, tying on her apron. 

“Me neither,” he said, pouring the water into the pot. 

~

Downstairs was bustling by the time Thomas arrived. He was unbearably dapper in an everyday-suit, the jacket hanging from his arm, and his hair softer in its part. 

“And why aren’t you in your livery?” Mrs. Patmore asked as she dropped a loaf of bread on the table. 

“I’m not on duty, Mrs. Patmore,” Thomas replied, reaching for the butter. Richard nudged it closer, across the table, and under the table nudged Thomas’s foot with his own. 

“But the King is coming!” She snapped, clearly more flustered than she was capable of handling. 

“Is he?” Thomas asked, sounding impressed. 

Richard was too happy with the world to contain his laugh. 

“Yes, Mr. Barrow,” Richard said through a spoonful of porridge. “The King is coming.”

“And I’ll thank you not to talk with your mouth full!” Mrs. Patmore smacked the side of Richard’s arm and stormed off in a tizzy. 

“Is that Mr. Barrow giggling?” Ms. Baxter said as she took the seat next to Thomas. “Is the tea that good this morning?”

Thomas visibly reined in his mirth, but his eyes stayed sharp against Richard’s. 

~

Richard was required to receive the King at his arrival, but he braved a brush with Thomas’s shoulder as he walked by him, and carried the memory of the fabric, warm from his skin, on his palm, while he stood in the chilly damp. After he had unpacked and re-packed the King, organized his clothing, and set out his uniform, Richard left Mr. Miller to his devices and collected the shoes that needed cleaning. When he walked into the boot room downstairs, he found Barrow crammed onto the counter with a newspaper and a pen behind his ear, reading out the news to Ms. Baxter and Anna. 

“Hello, Mr. Ellis,” Anna called as he walked in, moving over on the bench as she carefully reattached a jewel to a very delicate looking strap. 

“Hello, Anna, Ms. Baxter,” he said nodding at each of them before turning his full attention on Thomas. “And Mr. Barrow. Are you maybe hiding from someone?”

“Yes, in fact,” he said dryly, pompously flipping the newspaper. “The giant from Jack and the Beanstalk wants to steal my golden eggs.”

“Dreadful,” Richard said. “I think I heard him coming”—he put on his newly perfected Carson voice, watching Thomas’s reaction closely—“Fi, Fih, Foh, Fum, Mr. Barrow only deserves as much respect as my thumb!”

Thomas caved immediately and doubled over chortling, like it was startled out of him. 

“That’s not very nice,” Anna scolded half-heartedly, fighting her own grin. “I’m sure he respects you more than that.”

Ms. Baxter simply held a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. 

“Who else from Downton have you been making a study of, Mr. Ellis?” Thomas asekd.

“What, do you think I’ve just been sitting around, like you, with nothing better to do?” Richard asking as he de-laced a boot. 

“I assumed those were the duties of the _second_ valet,” Thomas sniffed. 

Richard sucked in his cheeks to keep from tittering like a child. 

“If I were wearing gloves, Mr. Barrow, rest assured I would have thrown one down by now,” said Richard. 

“Well, I _am_ wearing a glove, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas returned cheerfully. “But, because I am far more civilized than you, I will abstain from dueling.”

“Is that how you signed up for a war and ended up with a Blighty?” Richard asked. “By abstaining from dueling?”

“I was RAMC,” Thomas said laughing, again. “So yes, actually.”

“Fair enough,” Richard allowed, moving to the sink to rinse the boot off. 

When he sat back down again, Anna was looking at him like he had his shirt on backwards. Before he could ask what was so concerning, Ms. Baxter spoke.

“That’s fairly impressive, Mr. Ellis,” Ms. Baxter said. “How did you learn to do voices like that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind, Ms. Baxter.” Richard replied, picking up the polish. “One of my schoolteachers when I was young had an interest in languages. She could sound natural in any of them. I spent long hours after school begging her to teach me all she knew. I perfected the art during the war.”

He met Thomas’s eyes over the paper.

“Was she very pretty?” Anna asked, pointedly, pulling Richard up short. 

“Ah,” he hesitated. “I don’t recall. She was young, I think.”

Thomas was very obviously smirking at him from behind the paper. Richard could see it in the folded pattern around his eyes. 

“Must have been quite keen on her,” Thomas said, flipping the page with a flourish. 

“As I said,” Richard replied tartly. “I don’t recall.”

Thomas's grin seared.

~


	4. Chapter 4

> _When you love someone to the degree you love her, you see her as God sees her, and that is an instruction in the nature of God and humankind and of Being itself.  
> _
> 
> Marilynne Robinson, _Gilead_

* * *

**1924**

Thomas’s entire body ached. He wondered how long it might take to walk to the sea. How cold the water might feel. 

Still, they had to keep talking about it. 

“Well, I’ll not be coy and pretend I don’t understand,” said Dr. Clarkson, smooth and simple, as if he had not just drained a violent abscess. “Nor do I blame you. But there is no drug, no electric shock, that will achieve what you want. My advice to you, Thomas, would be to accept the burden that chance has seen fit to lay upon you. And to fashion as good a life as you’re able. Remember, harsh reality is always better than false hope.”

  
**1925**

“I've enjoyed my time as Butler,” said Thomas. Unexpectedly, this wasn’t even a lie meant to ingratiate. 

“I hope you’ve learned something from it,” Grantham said, raising his eyebrows. “You see, Barrow. Carson is a kind man. Don't overlook that. It’s why people are loyal to him.”

Thomas stretched his lips and hoped it resembled a smile. 

“Well, I’ll bear it in mind, m’lord.”

~

“Are you really going?” Mrs. Patmore asked, as if she hadn’t been around the past several months. 

“Even good things come to an end,” Thomas offered in a attempt to be light-hearted. 

“Well, I don’t know if you’re a good or a bad thing,” she replied. “But we’ve all been together for a very long time.”

Thomas needed to stop fishing in such an empty river. 

“And on that moving note, I think I’ll check the dining room.”

**1926**

“Did you hear?” Phyllis asked as she placed her work-box on the table and pulling out a chair. 

“Hear what?” said Thomas, putting his crossword aside. Ms. Baxter was normally the only member of staff who would seek him out to share news (gossip) and every time she did, Thomas just barely restrained himself from falling to her feet to thank her. 

“Andy proposed to Daisy,” she grinned. 

There were a handful of appropriate reactions to this news and supreme heartbreak was not one of them. He took a half-second too long to master it, but Phyllis noticed all the same. 

“Now, Mr. Barrow,” she teased. “Be happy for her! She’ll still be your friend, I’m sure.”

 _Accept your lot,_ Dr. Clarkson had said. _Be happy for her_ , said Phyllis. _Carry your burden_ , said Carson. _Stop fighting the world_ , said Anna. 

“I am happy for her,” Thomas said. “And I’ll congratulate her. Now, I should be off to bed.”

“Thomas,” she said, grabbing his arm before he could stand, but he gently shook her off. 

“Ms. Baxter,” he said. “If you do not want any nastiness, it would be best if you let me be.”

“She’s your friend, Thomas,” she implored. 

“I’m going to be watching my friends get married for the rest of life,” he said. “Don’t accuse me of being un-grateful.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, taken aback. 

“Weren’t you?” he asked, bitterly, fighting the poison leaking into his vision. “This is it, for me.”

She blinked her wide eyes. “It’s not so terrible, is it?”

Thomas knew deep-down that the affection of his friends could only mean so much, that the benevolence of those upstairs had a particular frame and handily squared-away, that their _acceptance_ was not exactly _endorsement_. 

“What if,” he asked, truly not wanting to hear the answer. “If, I found… a love, like that. What if I wanted to get married?”

Phyllis frowned. “You mean, with a woman?” 

“No.”

She flattened her lips and scanned his face. “Thomas,” she whispered. “I’m not sure—”

She cut herself off. 

Thomas nodded. It was devastating, of course, but unsurprising, and, regardless, she was still one of the dearest people in his life--his entire life. 

“People like me,” he explained for her, with a smile that felt like it had been sliced onto his skin. “That’s not for us, is it?”

“You do not have to live a life without love, Thomas,” she insisted, eyes teary. 

“I know,” he said, thinking of a cold, northern ocean. “I know.”

* * *

**1927**

The drive to York was far too quick, and, admittedly, rather dangerous, given that Richard spent more time laughing than paying attention to the road. Inevitably, he had to drop Thomas off in the city, to wander around for a couple hours before they were to meet in the pub, and the level of torment it was to drive off with Thomas grinning at him from the pavment, cheeky and shaded underneath the brim of his hat, was altogether ridiculous. Luckily, a mess of impatient cars were happy to hustle him along so he didn’t leap out of his own and do something stupid. 

Arriving at his parent’s house relieved some of the itch to return to Thomas as quickly as possible, but he still felt antsy, and trebly guilty, at the sight of his mum’s kitchen table groaning with plate after plate of biscuits. 

“Having a party, Mother?” he asked, hanging up his hat and letting her smooth down the creases in his jacket. 

“No, why do you ask?” she replied, tugging him into another hug. 

“I think he’s referring to your mountain of finger-sandwiches, my dear,” his dad said, tucking himself back into his seat at the table. “Sit down, son. I hope you’re hungry.”

Richard grinned and dropped into the seat across from him. 

“Don’t be silly, Fred,” his mum snipped, sitting next to Richard and reaching for the cream. “I’ll send the leftovers to Ms. Katherine, next door.”

“And how is Ms. Katherine,” Richard asked, stuffing a couple heart-shaped shortbread biscuits into his mouth at once.

“You’re a disappointment to the Crown, dear.” She tossed him a napkin. 

“Ms. Katherine is very well,” his dad replied. “And wants you to know that her three granddaughters are also very well, and very pretty.”

“Three?” Richard asked. “Last I checked she was only trying to foist two onto me. Louisa and Henrietta, right?”

“Well, Joy has just turned eighteen,” his mum explained, lips twitching. 

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll just avoid a visit until they’re all married off, I think. Hopefully to men their own age.”

“Don’t be silly,” his dad said. “You’re not that old.”

“I’m too old for an eighteen-year old,” Richard said, dumping four sugar-cubes into his tea under his mother’s disapproving glare. “Or however old Louisa is.”

“Twenty-one.”

“A child,” Richard said while his parent took turns to roll their eyes. 

“Regardless, I hope you are thinking of settling down at some point, love,” his mum said, brushing the loose hair off his forehead. 

Richard hid his reaction to this in his tea, but his dad’s smirk proved he hadn’t succeeded. 

“Do you see that, Fanny?” he asked. “Red as a fresh tomato.”

“Hardly,” Richard said, stopping himself from fanning his face as his mother stared him down.

“We don’t need the details,” she began. 

“Do you ever?” Richard cut in. 

“But we do need to know you’re being careful,” she finished. 

Terror was Richard’s tedious companion. It was almost laughable that his parent’s worried at all, considering he never left the walls of the palace and the last time he had kissed a man was during the war. But they had lived through his first run-in with the law as a very young-man, nearly three years of him at war, and the dictates of one of the most demanding service-positions in the country. They also had a front-row seat to the burden of queer-ness as they watched his Great-Uncle Harry get eaten alive by loneliness. They had a right to worry. 

“I am,” Richard said. “Truly.”

His mother smiled and brushed at his hair again, a light and refreshing touch. 

“Well you can tell us all about your new friend when Isabella gets here,” his dad said. 

“What? Isabella’s coming?”

“You think your only sister would miss your first visit home in over a year?” he scoffed. 

“Dad, I’m meant to be meeting someone for supper,” Richard protested. 

“Which someone is that?” his mum asked eagerly. 

“I’m not messing about,” said Richard. “I can’t stay for longer than a couple hours.”

“Good luck making an escape,” said his mum primly as she poured him more tea. “She’ll have the kids with her. And yes that does include her fool of a husband.”

“They’ve been married nearly ten years, Fanny. Maybe lay down the arms.”

“He’s half-baked, Fred.”

“He’s a clerk.”

“Yes, a half-baked clerk.”

Richard planted his elbow on the table and shoveled three more biscuits into his mouth, and, to curb is impatience, conjuring in his mind the cool weight of Thomas’s eyes on his skin. 

~

By the time Richard was able to extract himself from his charming nieces and Isabella’s sailor-strong grip, the sun was already setting, and he’d left Thomas alone in a pub for nearly two hours. He cursed the entire drive back into the city, cursed as he slammed the car door shut, as he shoved his hat on his head, as he dropped the key, and as slid down the damp pavement to find the right street. He gathered himself before entering the pub, hoping to capture some sort of suave air, but his frantic scanning of the pub’s patrons possibly robbed him of that effect. 

“Can I help you find someone, sir?” the landlord asked. 

Before Richard could say, “Yes, I’m looking for a man that Lord Byron would eat in a sandwich,” he heard a familiar laugh. He turned towards the sound quickly and saw Thomas, smiling, leaning back against his chair as a chestnut-haired man listed into his space with a wily grin. 

Richard was across the pub in under a second, forcing his way into the seat next to Thomas, pointedly ignoring the man sat opposite. 

“Mr. Ellis!—Richard,” said Thomas in greeting, his smile opening with delight, twisting his whole body to face him. “You made it.”

It was an acutely gratifying reaction. All Richard could do was beam at him for couple seconds. 

“I notice punctuality is only a requirement for the primary valet,” said Thomas, handing over a mostly full pint.

“My bloody sister showed up with her kids,” said Richard, accepting the pint and gulping half of it down without hesitation. 

“Kids?” asked Thomas. 

Richard wiped the foam from his mouth, growing even more satisfied as Thomas’s eyes followed the movement, and said, “Yes, two nieces. Bella and Doris. Cheeky little things. If I had known they would turn up, I might’ve brought you. Do you know I overheard Mr. Bates saying you’re better than the Nanny?”

Thomas blinked at him, a weird light overtaking his expression that Richard felt proud to have put there. 

“Hello,” a rough voice with a thick York accent cut in. 

Richard slid his gaze away from Thomas’s misty-colored eyes and met a pair of brown ones. 

“Right,” said Thomas, snapping into courtesy. “This is Mr. Webster. Mr. Webster, Mr. Ellis.”

“Call me Chris,” the man said, reaching across the table and offering his hand. 

Richard shook it with a service-smile and said, “Good evening.”

Thomas eyed him with a slight frown and Richard kept his face blank beyond raising his left eyebrow. Thomas smirked and stole his beer back. 

“Could’ve said, you know,” said Chris, scratching the corner of his handsome mustache. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Said what?” asked Thomas. 

“That you’re spoken for, my friend,” he said impishly. 

Thomas opened his mouth but no response came. Richard stared stonily at Chris who only smiled back, fearless. 

“Been trying to get this raven-haired vixen to come with me for the past half-hour,” he said, taking a long swing from his own pint. “If I had known the ‘someone’ he was waiting for was, well…”

He turned up the corner of his mouth and looked at Richard, lazy and self-assured. 

“Spoken for,” Thomas finished for him, voice as low as Chris’s, as he leaned over his forearms on the table, surreptitiously bringing himself closer to Richard. Richard sat up straighter and grabbed the beer, in a poor attempt to drown out his fast-beating fear and the charm of being so claimed. 

“Look at the pair of you,” Chris said. “Your shirts haven’t got a wrinkle in them.”

“We work in service,” said Richard carefully. 

Chris laughed, though it wasn’t a joke.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun,” he said. “It’s only dancing, I’m after, I swear.”

“Dancing?” asked Thomas. 

~

“This is hardly circumspect, Mr. Barrow,” Richard whispered out of Chris’s ear shot as they followed him through the darkening streets of York. 

Thomas didn’t appear to be paying attention, too dazed and excited. 

“I haven’t been to a place like this since I was in New York,” Thomas whispered back. “I had no idea there would be something like it in _old_ York.”

“When were you in New York?” Richard asked, genuinely curious. 

“Couple years ago. Went as a replacement valet. It was very modern.”

“Modern like Whitman?” said Richard, amused at Thomas’s sheepish smile, so out of place on his beautiful severe face. 

“Quite,” Thomas replied, sticking his nose in the air. Richard had the urge to poke him. 

“How weary you must be of this Bohemian lifestyle,” teased Richard, mock-solemnly, sticking his hands in pockets and looking up at the streetlights. “To have traveled so far. So experienced. So wise.”

“You’re insufferable,” Thomas muttered, as they turned onto an abandoned street. 

“Here we are,” Chris said quietly, gesturing to a pair of dirty factory doors reading: _Turton’s_. 

“Marvelous,” Richard said under his breath. Thomas snorted. 

Chris stepped up and knocked and within seconds they were ushered into another world. 

~

“Seen anything like this in London?” Thomas asked as they set down their coats and jackets. 

“Not for a long time,” said Richard, feeling sick with nerves and high with enchantment. “Those were a bit more glamorous than this, if you can believe it.”

As Thomas was about to reply Chris snagged his hand and tugged. “You owe me dance.”

The color was so bright and lovely on Thomas’s face that Richard’s wide grin as he waved them off was sincere. He hopped onto the crates by the wall to watch, battling the waves of terror and desire and comfort crashing through his blood. 

He’d gone to a club like this only once since the war. A week later he saw that a man was arrested at that location for cross-dressing and he was physically sick for the rest of the day, shivering with fever and anxiety. Looking at all these men, and several women, and several men dressed as women, it was thrilling and dazzling but he hadn’t felt this prepared for imminent suffering since he sat in the trenches, cleaning mud off his rifle. 

What he certainly wasn’t prepared for was how good a dancer Thomas appeared to be. After a brief negotiation over who was going to lead, Thomas and Chris were soon drawing the attention of others in the room. It hurt to see, though Richard had no idea how to articulate why. 

He sipped on his beer, cheap and quenching, avoiding the inviting looks of others, for two more songs, and Thomas and Chris returned to their things, breathless and flushed, their styled hair blown through. 

“Your turn, goldilocks,” Chris said, holding out an arm.

Thomas reached over, took Richard’s beer, and placed it in Chris’s outstretched hand. 

“That it is,” he agreed. Then he grabbed Richard’s wrist and mercilessly hauled him to the ground and to the dance-floor. 

“I’m not as good as you,” Richard tried to protest—a weak effort as he _really_ didn’t hesitate to cup the curve of Thomas’s waist and slide their fingers together. 

“I don’t care,” said Thomas, eyes burning. 

He let Richard lead in the simplest of steps, more country dancing than anything, but, fiddle reel or jazz, the beat was sturdy and Richard was able to take Thomas in a wide circle across the floor. 

Details filtered in as they danced: the weight of Thomas’s forearm on his chest as he steadied himself, the touch on the inside of his knee as Richard changed directions, the shift of muscles under his palm on Thomas’s back, the rhythm of his breath, the music through his feet, how precious Thomas’s face looked when he glanced down, the heady and engulfing warmth of being so close to someone for so long, his own rapid pulse from the exercise, from Thomas’s hand in his…

The next song slowed down and Richard didn’t have to think before settling into the new meter, drawing Thomas closer and touching his forehead to the loose black strands at his temple. 

“I like your hair like this,” Thomas said. 

“Sweaty?” Richard asked, admiring the stretch of Thomas’s smile. 

“Yes, Mr. Ellis,” he said snidely and Richard laughed. 

That’s when everything shattered. 

“ _Police_!” a man screamed, sprinting to the middle of the dance-floor. “Police! Raid! They’re on their way now!”

Richard, as relaxed as he had been with Thomas in his arms, had been waiting for this moment. Before the man was done shouting, before the music even stopped playing, he was towing Thomas back to their coats and jackets. 

“Fuck,” Thomas said viciously. Richard had no room in his mind to make a similar comment, but he felt it all the same. He was dressed and lugging Thomas, stumbling, to the door, just as the mad scramble began. 

“Let’s go!” he shouted, not letting go of Thomas’s arm until they were both running back up the street. 

“The bloody car, Richard!” Thomas shouted as they turned the corner, neatly dodging a man trying to turn the other way. 

A police car came screeching across the intersection and Richard yanked Thomas into an alley and around the back of another warehouse. As they came upon the road again, two more police vans whizzed past and Richard pressed Thomas against the brick wall, into the shadows. 

“Let’s go that way,” he said, pulling on Thomas’s coat sleeve. 

They raced down the south of a long building and emerged onto a lively commercial street. 

“There’s a popular restaurant just a block over,” Richard wheezed. “Let’s follow the crowd.”

They slipped behind a couple shops and climbed over several bins before arriving at a busy stretch of pavement, brightened with street-lights. Richard smoothed his hair, put on his hat, and donned his gloves, counting down to slow his breathing. He looked at Thomas, who had also put himself back together, buttoning his summer-coat and adjusting the white finger-less glove on his left hand. He nodded and they swiftly fell behind a group of young middle-class workers, their professional clothes rumpled from a night out coming straight from the office. 

They walked for a block, crossed the street, walked the way they came and swiftly chased their way back to the car. 

By the time they were tumbling into the car, Richard’s breath was severely erratic, his hand shaking as he triggered the ignition. Thomas had crumpled forward in the seat, head in his hands. They didn’t speak. 

~

The world darkened as they made their way out of the city. It was a quicker journey than before, the roads empty. Farmers went to bed early, leaving the villages they passed to the lone rumble of their car. The rich summer wind dried the sweat on Richard’s face and made it easier to think. He glanced every minute at Thomas, not sure what he was searching for. 

“That was too close,” Richard finally said, as they neared Downton and his heart slowed to a more reasonable pace. 

Thomas only shook his head in reply, mouth stiff, eyes forward. 

They dropped the car off at the service and made their way through the village. Just as Richard was about to turn onto the main road, Thomas lengthened his stride and moved past the turn. Richard followed, glad for an excuse to retreat back into his panic and start picking up the broken pieces of his reserve. He fixed his gaze on Thomas’s taut shoulders. 

Thomas led the way, at a clip faster than comfortable. They passed the Church and took the path just circumventing the churchyard. The air was so sweet and cool; mossy stones with faded names and weeds lining the pavement sat peacefully in the moonlight. Thomas guided them through the older, more irregular graves and into the wild grove just beyond—Richard realized that this had been his aim. It was quiet and dark and far removed from the roads or pedestrian traffic. Safe. 

They stopped just under a low-hanging bough of an elm tree. Thomas fell against the soft-with-age trunk and, again, dropped his head into his cupped hands. Though his breathing was less erratic, tremors still hung down his arms, the shallow movement turning Richard’s bones cold. He surveyed the yard beyond the edge of the grove, tracing the line where the church-staff stopped cutting the grass, and murmured, like an incantation, “ _and leaves the world to darkness and to[me](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44299/elegy-written-in-a-country-churchyard)._”

At the words, Thomas let out a low, strangled sob, brief and single. Richard could no longer handle the distance between them. 

He ducked under the bough and gathered up Thomas’s face in his palms, tilting his jaw up so Richard could look into his eyes. 

“We’re okay,” Richard said, his own voice water-logged. “We’re _safe_.”

Thomas visibly swallowed, his fingers wrapping shakily around Richard’s wrists, just under the edge of his gloves. 

“Are we?” he whispered. “Truly?”

It was a singularly _horrific_ question—bristling with familiarity. 

Richard shrugged off the abyss and said, “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“You mean we’re better off than the poor sods that might be sitting in prison right now.”

Richard felt himself responding the level of bite in Thomas’s tone. 

“They made their choices,” he said, stepping back a half-step and removing his hands from Thomas’s face. 

“A choice between what?” Thomas hissed. “Being ‘ _circumspect_ ’”—this word he twisted, like he was wringing out a wet towel—“or rotting in jail?”

Richard replied stiffly, keeping his eyes fixed above Thomas’s right ear, “Yes, actually. As I said.”

Peripherally, he could see Thomas’s anguished face slacken and his shoulders fall. It took him the space of three breaths to say, “Those aren’t very good choices.”

“That’s the world,” Richard sighed, meeting his eyes again. “The way it works.”

Because Thomas had stepped a little into the moonlight, Richard could see his face clearly when the sad resignation fell away to be replaced by a snarling fury. 

“ _Well it shouldn’t be_.” 

Richard blinked, wrestling to keep his mouth from turning down or his eyes from tearing up. 

“Thom—”

But Thomas was already moving, stalking, beyond the hanging boughs, and shouting up to the sky, “It’s not _right_!”

Richard grabbed his arm in a panic, whispering shrilly, “Thomas—”

Thomas yanked his arm out of his grasp and threw his own out. “Richard!” he yelled. “It’s not right! None of this is _fair_!”

“Who cares about _fair_?” Richard yelled back, his vision stinging. 

“ _I_ DO.” Thomas said. “ _I_ care about it! All my life, I’ve been told to keep my nose down, to keep my nose out of it. To just keep going, to just accept it, accept the burden, accept the pain, accept the punishment for whichever of my ancestors dealt with the devil!”

Richard stared, mouth open, something--normally contained, imprisoned--bubbling deep within him. 

“But everyone who has ever said that is wrong!” Thomas continued. “They’re all wrong! The world is wrong—no! It’s not the world—it’s just _them_ ”—here he gestured roughly at the church, at the community—“It’s them! _I’m_ not the one who is foul. _They_ are.”

He ran his gloved hands over his hair, gasping, somehow both enraged and ecstatic. 

“Their books and their laws and their wars and their bloody clothes,” he listed, face flushed like the sun, voice gleaming. “I read, I read once—with Daisy—and she was _right_ —but I read, I think, ‘the soul of the world is just’—and it’s true. I know what’s right. I know what’s fair. And it isn't that. It isn’t them.”

His chest heaved as he looked back at Richard, who was standing there flesh-less, wondering where his body had gone, trying to calculate what he was feeling, lost and burning. 

“It’s you,” Thomas said, his voice sure and billowy, like his chest, like misty wind. “ _That’s_ what’s just. _You’re_ what’s fair and right. Dancing with you…” He put both hands on his head to spread out his rib-cage and give his lungs more space. His face was the stuff of rapture, of dream. 

“Dancing with you, Richard,” Thomas said, sweet and sincere. “That’s the soul of the world.”

Richard choked on a cry, a pain, a sore, he had long buried, wrapped up in tight in pressed livery, and he may as well have been standing under a waterfall for all he was capable of hearing anything past the rushing, toiling, relief in his ear. He pushed through it, pushed forward, snatched Thomas up but the lapels of his coat and kept pushing until Thomas was backed against a tree and Richard’s mouth was on Thomas’s neck. 

“Thomas,” he gasped against his warm skin, pushing, pushing, trying to climb into Thomas’s strength, and anger, and fight, and beauty, and throat. “Thomas, _darling_ ,” he whispered as he trailed his nose up and down the rough moon-like texture. 

“Richard,” Thomas exhaled across the top of Richard’s cheek, past the tip of his ear. His hands found their way under both Richard’s coat and jacket, tugging hard on his vest. “Christ.”

Richard trailed his mouth, wet, over Thomas’s stark cheekbone, skirting up to the sensitive skin beneath his eyes and landing with heat over his dark eyebrow. He held himself there, moving one arm to circle behind Thomas’s head, pulling him away from the tree’s rough bark, and the other arm to his chest, slipping fingers beneath his vest to touch the solid warmth above his heart. 

“Richard,” pleaded Thomas breathlessly, tipping his precious face up. “Kiss me.”

Richard complied. 

When their mouths met, Richard’s eyes fell closed and Thomas’s scent and taste washed over his mind like sunlight. He moved as close as he could, marveling at the frame of Thomas’s arms on his waist and ribs. His mouth opened and Richard felt like singing as he fell into it. He wanted to stay there, neat stubble catching on his bottom lip, the tip of his tongue held sweetly between a set of white teeth. Then he shifted his hand from the back of his head to his pale neck and pushed Thomas’s jaw further cup, and he found even more sweetness deeper in Thomas’s wide hot mouth. 

“Gloves,” Thomas gasped before latching onto Richard’s bottom lip and tugging. 

Richard fell forward, littering shallow kisses across Thomas’s upper lip and chin and the plane of his nose. 

“What?” he asked, light-headed. 

“Take them off,” Thomas hummed, lifting his own hand to pull down Richard’s collar as far as it would go. Somehow, through the haze of Thomas’s teeth and tongue on the vulnerable skin of his throat, Richard was able to circle his hands behind Thomas’s shoulders and peel his gloves off, carelessly dropping them on the grass below. It was the most perfect balm of Richard’s life to dig his bare fingers into Thomas’s hair, as exquisite as the touch of lips. 

He kept one hand in his hair as Thomas sucked hard on his neck, and moved the other to his face, trailing his fingers over the pattern of his ear, cupping his jaw. He let his own head drop forward, resting his cheek on Thomas’s sweet-smelling hair, nosing against his forehead as Thomas bit into him. 

“Darling,” Richard breathed and Thomas finally offered his mouth to Richard’s once more. He eagerly met his lips again and again, his mind going wild with the wet sound, until they both could only breathe against the other, clutching and gasping and delirious. 

Gradually, Richard became aware of his surroundings, the trees rustling, the summer blooms adding honey to the night air. He kept his fingers on Thomas’s face, stroking, and had no intention of stepping out of the circle of his arms. 

“You have beautiful hands,” said Thomas lowly, tone measured, not trying flatter. 

“All the better to touch you with, my dear,” replied Richard, unable to help himself. 

With that, the tension broke, but Richard did not mourn it, for now he could feel Thomas’s smile against the corner of his mouth. 

“Daft,” Thomas said, moving to rest his face against Richard neck, tightening his arms around his waist. 

“Hush,” said Richard as he wound his own arms around Thomas’s shoulders and squeezed as hard as he could. He pressed a series of kisses to Thomas’s chilled ear. “Do you think if I tried, I could button up my coat over your back?”

“As I’m not moving anytime soon,” Thomas replied, muffled against Richard’s collar. “That seems to be your only option.”

Richard was drunk on a golden nectar and he giggled against the side of Thomas’s head, like a child. A breeze picked up the hairs on the back of his neck, he’d lost his hat at some point, and the darkness beat like a heart in the old-grove. He sensed the presence of the fey, of old tongues whistling across the mossy roots, of an unseen fire. Eventually, they would have to release each other and walk back into a stifling world, but, for now, amongst the clean trees groaning in the night, Richard felt real and strong as he leaned in for another kiss. 

~

As they walked back to Downton Abbey, Richard pushed Thomas up against nearly every tree on the way. In between, Thomas clutched his hand and planted kissed on each of his knuckles, like his simple flesh was a divinely gifted jewel. When they made it onto the grounds, they separated, but, for some reason, it hardly ached. Their footsteps in the courtyard matched each other’s, a blissful sensation. 

“Fancy a cup of tea?” Thomas asked as they shuffled inside. 

“That would be lovely,” Richard responded. Thomas stared at him for an extended moment and Richard pinched his wrist as he followed him into the kitchen. 

“Daisy,” said Thomas and Richard pulled up short. “What are you still doing up?”

Daisy was standing over a kettle at the stove, pouting, bonnet stuffed in her pocket, arms crossed. 

“It’s not that late,” she said.

“Maybe for those of us who don’t cook breakfast,” Thomas allowed wryly, slipping off his coat and jacket and setting them on the desk by the wall. Richard forced himself to do the same to keep from watching as Thomas rolled up his sleeves. 

“Mrs. Patmore took me off breakfast,” Daisy replied mulishly. “She wants me to sleep off my attitude, like.”

Thomas rubbed his mouth, evidently as a way to keep from laughing. Richard held no such reservations and snickered. 

“How’d the dinner go?” Richard asked, leaning up against the tall oven and rolling up his own sleeves. “Did the scheme work out?”

“Yeah,” Daisy said through a yawn. “I think Mr. Molesley embarrassed himself in front of the King but Mr. Bates said you would have to be simple to think he wouldn’t.”

“Well, I think it’s embarrassing the King can’t do up his own boots, so I wouldn’t be too hard on Mr. Molesley,” said Richard. 

Daisy’s whole face lit up. 

“What about you two, then?” she asked. “Did you have fun on your night off?”

“Fun enough,” Thomas said with an unholy smirk. Richard made busy by picking at his fingernails. 

Daisy glanced between the two of them, pursed her lips, darted out into the hallway, looked back and forth, and then darted back to the stove. She raised her eyebrows high and asked in a loud whisper, “Did you…?” she waved her hands, meaningfully. 

“Did we what?” Richard asked in a matching whisper, bending down a little to look her in the eye. 

Daisy set her jaw and said very seriously, “Dance.”

Thomas huffed, amused. 

Richard cast a smile his way and let his own joy reveal itself, responding quietly, “In a fair world, we would.”

Thomas added, “That world was an old warehouse in York, if you’re curious.”

* * *

_  
So I took up my hat and I bid her: “Good morning,”  
I said: “You're the best that I know at this game.”  
She answered: “Young man, if you'll come back to-morrow  
We'll play the game over and over [again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE-I94e8UPY).”_

Richard apparently had no energy left for pretenses.

“I’ll meet you in your room,” he said to Thomas as they headed upstairs, bright and gregarious and bold. 

“Can you find it?” 

“Closest to the stairwell,” he replied. At Thomas’s frown he added, “They’re all labeled.”

It only took a minute for Richard to return to him, bathroom kit in hand, and when Thomas had closed the door and jammed it locked with a scrap piece of wood, he fell back against the frame and sighed. Richard was standing his room, his long-fingered hands hooked on his pockets, smiling that same rosy smile he had been from the beginning—Thomas did nothing to stem the golden flow of affection lighting his veins. 

“Well, Mr. Barrow,” Richard said softly (and would Thomas ever get used such a voice? would his mouth ever sit still on his face at the sound of Richard saying his name?). 

Thomas stepped to him, borrowing the shimmering boldness of the man before him, and gently propelled him to back, guiding him to sit on the bed. Then he knelt down, running his hand down the back of Richard’s long calf and pulled his foot onto his lap. He traced the curve of the sole with his thumb, pressing in until Richard jerked a little at the feeling, and then began to loosen the laces, keeping one hand supporting his ankle which seemed to fit perfectly in his palm. He slid the shoe off and set it aside, softly setting the foot down and reaching for the other to repeat the process. When both shoes were neatly set beneath his bed he looked up.

Richard’s sunny smile from before had washed into a pinker-- _sweeter--_ blessing that Thomas wanted to bite into. 

He let his hands wander up Richard’s arms as he stood, taking Richard with him. He was prepared to do anything to keep that look of wonder permanently etched into the lines of Richard’s face but knew, if he kept admiring it, he might well lose his mind. He needed to focus. 

He bent his head a little and started to undo the buttons of Richard’s vest, marveling slightly at the rise and fall of his chest and stomach. Then he reached for the buttons of his collar, clumsily allowing his knuckles to brush the skin of his throat in a way he would never as a valet—a distinction that seemed more important than anything at that moment. He put his left hand at the nape of Richard’s neck and loosened the tie with his right, before pulling the knot loose and sliding it off. He only stepped away for a moment to drape the tie on his chair with care then returned to unbutton his shirt. 

As he undid the second button, the mark he had made earlier on Richard’s collar-bone revealed itself and before he knew it, his mouth was back on that perfect skin. The reedy, quick breath that Richard sucked in at the touch gave Thomas a visceral swoop, making him feel both heated and airy and free. He drowned briefly in the smell of Richard’s pulse and the texture of his throat, then, with a flat swipe of his tongue up the groove of his neck, Thomas veered back, intent on sticking to the task at hand. 

Richard shivered.

Thomas made his way down the shirt, laying weight into the movement to better feel the warm body beneath. When he reached the bottom of the shirt, he moved closer, dipping his fingers into the top of Richard’s trousers and un-clipping his suspenders: right, left, a gentle sweep to the back. Keeping his hands flushed against Richard’s waist, he began to pull out his shirt tails, starting on the sides, pressing into the small of his back, and then revealing the last buttons at the front.

He felt drunk. 

After unbuttoning, he skimmed his fingers over the top of Richard’s chest, over his shoulders but under his shirt, and slowly guided the sleeves, vest, and suspenders down his arms, catching them as they fell to one side and lovingly hanging them next to his tie. Before he could step back to Richard, he felt a large hand wrap around his bicep and suddenly he was pressed to the thin undershirt of a warm chest, enveloped and secure. 

He shuffled closer, arms coming up and around Richard’s back, cupping his shoulder-blades, and putting more weight than was necessarily polite against him. But Richard held firm, arms long and strong. Thomas closed his eyes and listed onto the muscle of his shoulder, plucking gently on the fabric of his shirt. 

“If this is how you undress Lord Grantham…” Richard said, mouth right by his ear. 

“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are,” Thomas said back, focusing on the feel of the delicate fabric underneath his lips. 

“I want to be clear about something,” Richard said, hoisting Thomas around tenderly, and setting him on the bed. “This is absolutely not how I undress the King.”

He knelt and Thomas, giddy and stupid, couldn’t help himself: “Well, you _are_ only the second valet. Really, you could do anything and it wouldn’t be how you undress the King.”

Richard looked up at him, stretching his long golden throat, the apples of his cheeks round and the color of coral as he struggled against a smile. Thomas only offered him a snooty leer and then Richard was falling forward, hands on Thomas’s knees, face on his right thigh, laughing. Thomas dropped a hand into his hair, gently picking out the yellow strands from the brown, confident that the King himself has never felt this divine. 

Richard sat back up, rocking onto his heels, and held Thomas’s leg aloft with a muscular hand beneath his knee. As he cradled Thomas’s foot between his legs, the edges of his vision blurred and Richard grew all the clearer.

When he slipped off the first shoe, his right hand slid down Thomas’s leg to hold his heel, and he twisted his left hand to gather Thomas’s toes in his palm, covering them his fingers, to warm them. Then he bent forward and kissed the fabric over his shin, before guiding Thomas’s foot to the side of his own knee, leg still stretched out, and reached for the other. 

Once he had done the same, he swayed onto his knees and shuffled forward, his hips spreading Thomas’s thighs, and he eagerly chased the clips of his suspenders, pushing them unceremoniously onto the floor, and the buttons of his shirt, scattering light kisses across Thomas’s stomach and sternum. As he tugged the shirt sleeves down, he followed their path with his mouth.

Through it all, Thomas felt like his entire body was being discovered, his blood invented, made physical matter only as a canvas for Richard’s touch. So intoxicating was the attention, the gilded edges of Richard’s jaw and hands, that he didn’t notice at first when Richard paused at his wrists and held them up to the light. 

“Thomas,” Richard whispered, tracing the silver scar with his thumb. 

Thomas froze in rigid fear, as if by not moving or breathing, he might turn invisible. Yet Richard’s face did not slant into pity, nor heartbreak. He simply leaned over Thomas’s upturned hand and ran the tip of his noise down the pale length of his inner forearm. He pressed a wet kiss to the heel of Thomas’s palm and carried the hand up with him, holding it to his own jaw, as looked into Thomas’s face. 

_Christ_ , Thomas thought, heart in his throat, caught on the shadow of lashes framing Richard's eyes.

He shifted his hand to smooth the tip of his thumb over his cheekbone and Richard listed forward, turning his face into Thomas’s palm. 

“ _Thank God,_ ” he said. “Thank God for you.”

The next moment was a blur as Thomas pulled his knees in tight around Richard’s hips, practically holding him up, and, with both hands, tugged Richard’s lips up to his. His index fingers found the curve of Richard’s neck and he pressed hard to bend over him, mouth relentless, searching for that ember that made Richard glow like a copper kettle. 

Richard’s arms wound their way around his waist and he collapsed into Thomas’s chest, releasing the smallest of sounds deep in his chest as Thomas pushed behind his teeth. He let Thomas kiss him, supplicant and warm, until he groaned fully, planting his hand on the bed by his hips and pushing up, surrendering Thomas’s tongue from his mouth. Thomas took the hint and scooted to the side and back, laying down lengthwise on the bed, fingers twisted into Richard’s shirt as he settled on top of him. 

The heavy substance of him was glorious. 

But as Richard surged over him, taking Thomas’s bottom lip between his own, the bed squeaked and knocked, just barely, against the wall. 

They both stopped moving abruptly, eyes unfocused, ears trained on any sounds emerging from the sleeping house. After a tense minute, Richard slowly unlocked his elbows and lay down fully on top of Thomas’s chest, sighing. 

“I’m not fucking on the floor,” said Thomas, running his hands up and down Richard’s back. 

Richard tittered again his collar-bone, squeezing the backs of Thomas’s shoulders. 

“Presumptuous,” said Richard. 

Thomas snorted and asked, “Am I?” as he shifted his hips up, just barely. 

Richard propped himself up again, grinning. “Nothing gets past you, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas’s heart-rate slowed but his body remained heated. He slowly edged to the side of the bed, making room for Richard to lay on his side. They shucked their own trousers and curved into each other, Thomas sliding his arm into the space between Richard’s shoulder and the pillow, bending it to cup the back of his head. Richard wasted no time in shoving both hands underneath Thomas’s shirt and hooking their ankles together. 

“If we don’t, now…” said Thomas, struggling to focus with Richard’s dulcet fingers running roughly up and down his chest. 

“Hmm…?” said Richard, latching his mouth onto the corner of Thomas’s jaw. 

Thomas lost the plot for several minutes, doing his best to crawl into Richard via his unfathomably brilliant mouth. 

“If we don’t…” Richard prompted, resting his wet, red mouth under the edge of Thomas’s cheekbone, guiding Thomas’s thigh over top of his. 

Thomas blinked and mentally shook himself, even as his fingers slipped under Richard’s shorts to find his hipbone. “I meant,” he continued. “If we don’t—now—then, maybe, it’ll be something to look forward to.”

Richard’s right hand paused in its examination of Thomas’s ribs. He pulled his mouth off Thomas’s face and looked down on him, pink-lipped, pink-cheeked, and confused. 

“Thomas,” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

Thomas was thinking an uninterrupted stream of: _lips teeth skin lips lips wet lips hand fingernails warm warm warm_. Underneath it all was an instinct, though, and he didn’t know how to negotiate with it. 

“I don’t know,” he breathed. 

Richard smiled—that same rosy smile, rounded cheeks, angled mouth, brilliant and hot and painful to see, painful not to see, that same smile that had already planted a flag in Thomas’s lungs, his palms, his toes, his blood—and he said, shy and bold, shimmering and steady, “Darling. I’m here. And I’m quite determined that tonight will not be my last night with you.”

This was both unthinkable and utterly _true_ to Thomas, who found himself tearing up at the contradiction. He pulled his hands away to cover his face but Richard murmured, “Darling,” again and cradled Thomas against his neck and chest. 

“I’m still not fucking on the floor,” said Thomas, grabbing at his dignity. 

Richard's pink smile lolled against his temple. 

“I’m not sure you realize how good this feels, right now,” offered Richard. “If we did anymore, I might be burned alive from the inside out.”

“That seems a bit dire,” said Thomas. 

“I’m not saying I would mind,” Richard continued, thoughtfully. 

“I would,” said Thomas. “Stay.”

Richard in response gathered him closer, nuzzling into his hairline.

Thomas was on the precipice of sleep when Richard started quoting in a whisper, “ _I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you. None has understood you, but I understand you. None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself._ ” 

Thomas tilted his head down against Richard’s chest and kissed him over his heart, open-mouthed and slow. Richard continued, “ _None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you. None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you. I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in[yourself](https://poets.org/poem/you)._”

~

When Thomas startled awake at the wake-up call, he found himself mushed into the soft of Richard’s belly, feet hanging over the end of the bed. He looked up and Richard who wearily blinked down at him from his awkwardly bent position, shoulder-blades shoved up against the bed-frame. It only took them two beats to be kissing again, close-mouthed and caressing. 

They decided to wait out the hustle of the morning, fairly positive that no one was going to push into Richard’s room given that he wasn't on duty. Thomas got the pleasure of being tucked away into his livery by Richard’s generous hands and managed to himself to get Richard to let him comb his honey-brown hair. 

(Curiously, there was nothing truly aching at the thought of their impending separation. Where once things had seemed decided and written and set for Thomas, now the world was blooming, changing, growing.)

Thomas went down to breakfast first and a couple minutes later Richard found a seat across from. No one payed them any real attention, too busy working over the Royal Household bafflement and embarrassment. But when Daisy dropped a fresh bowl of porridge in front of him, she winked. 

As everyone gathered at the stairs, waiting for the call to see the King off, Thomas retreated to his office. The dusty smell and solitude, a now _un_ necessary comfort, sat harmlessly on his consciousness. The neat desk and meek sunlight washing in felt resoundingly like bookends. Like in a clock, the gears in his head were turning inevitably—he was already mentally composing a letter to a training hospital in London, trying to recall the train-lines that took one straight to Buckingham Palace, wondering about letting his hair grow longer. It was just short of miraculous how easy it was, now, to _start_ somewhere, to think of those small-steps taken into something new.

Richard poked in, holding his hat to his chest and luggage by his side, just as the rest of the staff raced upstairs for the send-off. He set his case by the door, after closing it, and dropped his hat. Then he pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. 

“For you,” he said softly. On it he had written an address and telephone number. “The number is for a public line, for all the palace servants, so—”

“Exercise circumspection?” Thomas finished for him, amused and happy, tucking the card into his own breast-pocket. 

Richard smirked and said, “Only over the telephone.”

They gazed at each other, relaxing into a sort of anticipation. 

“Write to me,” said Richard candidly, the smirk gone, his eyes earnest. 

Thomas nodded, and replied firmly, “I have no intention of giving you a chance to forget me.”

Richard ducked his head slightly, cheeks rounding out again into that perfect rosy shape. He shoved a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver pendant, turning it over in his fingers delicately. 

“Here,” he said, holding the pendant out to Thomas. It bore a whimsical crescent moon and glimmered even in the muted light of the office. “So you won’t forget me.”

Thomas closed his fingers over the image and looked up at Richard, surrendering everything he felt into the air between them. Richard accepted it and swiftly seized Thomas by the side of his face and kissed him, first his top lip, then his bottom one, then deeper and sweeter, the flat of his tongue pressing up against their shape. Thomas held on, fingers finding the precious hair behind Richard’s ear, gentle and elegant. 

A rap on the door interrupted them. Thomas heard Andy shout, “They’re going up!” and then his rapid footsteps on the stairs. 

“I have to go,” whispered Richard, making no move yet to remove his hand from Thomas’s jaw. 

“Can’t miss your train,” agreed Thomas, brushing their noses together. 

“Write to me,” Richard said again, voice thick. 

“I will,” said Thomas.

With supreme effort he released his grip on Richard’s hair, allowing his fingertips to linger on his warm, golden skin as they fell from his face, back to Thomas’s side. Richard pressed another quick kiss to his mouth, then his cheek, and stepped back, breathing deeply. 

He put his hat on, kissed Thomas again, on the temple, twice, leaving Thomas laughing as he hustled out the door. 

Tracing the moon with his finger, standing alone in the hall, he felt no sting of loneliness. 

The morning-light in the window turned to liquid-gold as he pocketed the pendant and made a new start.


End file.
